


you can have it all

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bi Bi Bi Till the Day I Die, Enemies to Friends to Lovers to Spouses, F/M, M/M, Multi, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Threesome - F/M/M, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: London, 1851: Against all odds, James and Francis survive the Arctic. Now, they have to figure out what comes next.





	1. Chapter 1

“Francis. Are you unwell?”

Blinking open his eyes to the strong rays of mid-afternoon sun, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier was greeted by James Fitzjames’s concerned expression: strong Romanesque brow furrowed in thought and full, mischievous mouth set in a serious line. The man was hovering over him like an anxious old biddy might attend a sickly infant’s cradle.

“Exhausted,” answered Francis with a groan, “no more.”

“Ah.” Fitzjames straightened up, and removed his hand from Crozier’s shoulder in a businesslike manner. “Another head-ache, I presume?”

Can’t keep them away because of all the god-damned light and noise _ ,  _ thought Crozier in a sour manner, but the word that fell into his conscious mind next was far different.

_ Quagaa _ , was all he grumbled, wordless.

_ Light everywhere. _

Fitzjames paused, nodded once in understanding. “Odd, isn’t it? So much time spent wishing for the sun, now I often wish it would go down for a fortnight or more. Give us some measure of peace.”

“Hm.” Crozier closed his eyes again. He was still comfortable on his back, and their part of the world was not intolerably noisy today. There would be time to argue with James later. “‘M fagged out. Leave me be.”

“As you wish.” Fitzjames’s hand returned to his shoulder. “I shall be off soon.”

  
##  
  


Minutes later, Captain James Ftizjames exited his current home, and turned left toward the high street. He was shocked and then promptly horrified to collide with a strange woman on the pavement, mere meters from his front door.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, Madam.”

Although his manners were a bit rusty, these days, Fitzjames did like to feel as if he had kept up social etiquette, when such accidents occurred. 

“It is no trouble, Captain.” The woman’s face was obscured by her blue bonnet, although several blonde curls peeked out around her neck. “The fault is mine. I – please do not concern yourself.” A hitch of breath. “You need not worry.” 

At that moment, Captain Fitzjames realised two distinct facts. One: that this woman was crying, though she tried in vain to hide her tears from his perplexed gaze. And two: in her raised hand, she clutched a balled-up handkerchief. This small piece of cotton should have been unremarkable, but in the corner facing him was an elaborate work of floral embroidery. Stitched within the embroidery piece in question was a sigil Fitzjames would have recognized anywhere. He had spent years of his life working next to it, glimpsing it everywhere he turned, and spotting this symbol in the wild now was akin to seeing an old friend announced in the middle of the town square.  _ Sir John Franklin. _

“Miss – Cracroft? Is it you?”

He could scarce believe his luck, although the lady tilted her face to his with a guilty expression, revealing flushed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and a slanted, trembling mouth. Even if he had not been friendly with Sir John Franklin as a person, as well as an expedition commander, Fitzjames felt instinctively as if he would have known Sophia Cracroft anywhere. Francis had described her appearance time and time again on the journey home – often to the point of obscenity, although he had not known it at the time.

“Yes.” Miss Cracroft looked determined. “Then you know why I have come. I – Captain Fitzjames, I – can scarcely force myself to approach, lest he see me and refuse to answer. Do you think he – he would answer?”

As they spoke, Fitzjames’ senses, keenly honed across years spent on battle frontlines, prickled with recognition. He realised they were being closely watched by passers-by. But mere curiosity was not what concerned him most about this notion. These days, he did not like being near so many people all at once. Being the center of a room’s attention. He was constantly tracking exit routes off the main path. Just in case.

“Pray, may I escort you to – well, a place more inviting than the crowded pavement?” he finally asked. “I am willing to speak with you further, if you will allow it.”

Miss Cracroft did not seem surprised that he had extended such an invitation. Dabbing at her nose with her handkerchief, the lady finally nodded an assent. 

“You may. I am sorely in need of refreshment, if that is at all possible.”

Farther down the street, Fitzjames noticed a handsome cab pulled by two dark stallions waiting restless at the curb. Its driver sported full livery, and kept gesturing toward Miss Cracroft in an impatient way. 

“Did you come in that cab, just there?”

She glanced over. “Yes. That’s our man, Clark.”

“Wonderful.” Fitzjames, for the first time in several days, felt himself smiling. “Let us discover if your man Clark shall take us to an unusual destination. One I frequented often with your late uncle, before.”

“Oh.” Miss Cracroft seemed amenable. “Well, I suppose that would be all right.”

Minutes later, the pair of them stood face to face with Leighton, a thin yet imposing måitre’d who was three score and ten if he were a day, and who seemed horrified by Miss Cracroft’s mere presence in the corridor of his establishment.

“Captain Fitzjames.” The old man now fixed James with a most severe expression, steepling his aged fingers in front of him with a spidery tapping motion. “While I follow the logic of your argument, sir, how could I possibly permit even one member to break this institution’s most sacred and indeed cardinal law?” He glared at Miss Cracroft, who blinked back at him, speechless, before giving Fitzjames a beseeching look. “As you are aware, the statute is ironclad.  _ No women. _ ”

“Oh, come now, Leighton,” said Fitzjames, in a tone nothing short of disappointed. “I have glimpsed numerous women within these walls many times.”

Most of whom were whores or favored mistresses of the men on their arm, but Miss Cracroft could remain in blissful ignorance of that particular fact.

“But they were not – ” Leighton glanced again at Miss Cracroft, and set his jaw “ – this is no respectable place for an  _ eligible lady of good standing _ , sir.”

“Of course it is most unusual,” Fitzjames answered calmly. “And were the circumstances reversed, I should likely be making the same argument in your place. But the fact remains that our visit here has purpose. It is not a whim of folly or vice. Miss Cracroft’s uncle, Sir John Franklin – as well you know – oft loved retiring to the library with a cup of strong English tea. And spent many an hour poring over atlases...biographies...tomes of all disciplines, really, as we prepared for our arduous journey north.”

He was prepared to spin this particular yarn out for as long as was necessary, but before he could launch into the second part of this tragic tale, Sophia Cracroft spoke up.

“Pray excuse me, Leighton – it is Leighton, isn’t it? I understand you are tasked with the overall management here, and that our odd request hinders both your many duties as well as those of your hardworking men. But I have – ” she sniffed again, rather loudly, and brought the back of her hand to her mouth for a moment before continuing, “precious few places where I can truly recall Uncle John. He spoke of your imitable service and of his comrades here so handsomely in life, that I merely – oh!” 

With an audible, shuddering breath, she touched Leighton’s gloved hand with the tip of her fingers. “Please forgive me. I only wanted to spend an hour in a place he cherished, so that I might remember my uncle as he was. A kindly, cheerful man who loved singing, and Scripture, and my dear Aunt Jane, and who was so – very brave. Rather than as a silly washed-up fool who – who met his Maker alone on the ice.”

She averted her gaze from the group with a rather unladylike squeak, swiped at her eyes and face, and loudly blew her nose.

Standing at her side, his features schooled into an impassive mask, Fitzjames decided he had never witnessed such a command performance, even on the best of the London stages. Here, in the hallway of a prestigious gentleman’s club, this extraordinary woman seemed at once heartsick with grief and radiant with hope in her fellow man. And the others assembled had quite fallen prey to such feminine charms! In the corner, a young footman, barely more than a boy, was swiping tears from blotched, ruddy cheeks instead of standing at attention. No one reprimanded him for this lapse in decorum. And directly in front of them, old crabby Leighton – who had never so much as cracked a smile in Fitzjames’s presence prior to this day – seemed as if he might melt into a puddle of paternal guilt rather than cause this poor girl an ounce more pain.

He turned his clouded gaze to Fitzjames, one eyebrow arched in stern warning. “You shall not permit other gentlemen to approach you.”

“No,” Fitzjames agreed, nodding his head as if this were the worst sort of notion. “Though you may need an extra man stationed near the door to keep them out.”

“And you must not stray from the library.”

“My dear fellow, you shall see neither hide nor hair of us elsewhere.”

Leighton turned to Miss Cracroft, and the sternness he had previously assumed with Fitzjames altered as he gave her a stiff sort of bow. Fitzjames noted with horror that the old steward actually attempted to smile at her whilst paying such respects; it made him seem like a deranged, hunchbacked child. 

“Miss Cracroft.” Fitzjames could swear he heard the fellow’s bones creak like a rusty suit of armor as he straightened up. “Please permit me to offer my deepest condolences in this season of loss.”

As Leighton regained full height, Miss Cracroft took his gloved hand between both of hers, and favored him with a tearful ingenue’s smile. “Now I see why my uncle spoke so fondly of you, dear Leighton. You have my eternal gratitude.”

  
##

 

“Uncle John abhorred memoirs,” the lady said flatly, several minutes later. She was occupied with tracing her fingers over the aged, gilded spines closest to her footpath, and the pair of them were alone in the library, with only a single footman stationed further down the corridor. “Although I presume you knew that.”

“Mm,” Fitzjames swirled the brandy in his glass before glancing up. “If I recall correctly, he thought them all rather vain as a genre, and refused even to pick up a single volume. Though it was only because the senior Ross’s – ”

“Sold better than his.”

Miss Cracroft finished the sentence without pausing. 

They exchanged a smile.

“He did enjoy perusing his Scripture, however,” Fitzjames allowed quietly. Much as he had derided Sir John’s extreme piety in life, it seemed unkind to extend such mockery to the commander’s grieving niece. He could not fully tell if she shared her uncle’s passion for all things Biblical. At any rate, it was impolite to ask.

“Yes, he did.” A pause. “Captain Crozier talked of it often.”

She took a seat in one of the ornate armchairs closest to the fireplace, where a snifter of brandy waited on the table by her left hand. Fitzjames reckoned she was likely the first lady of note to receive such excellent service in this particular establishment.

“I do not quite know where to begin,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It has been so long since we have lain eyes on each other.”

With a sigh, Fitzjames crossed to the fireplace, and sat down in the chair opposite hers. He understood her meaning precisely; she was speaking about a man who did not currently occupy this room. “Miss Cracroft.”

“Please.” She held up a hand for silence. “In future, you may call me Sophia. I do not care for formalities.”

Fitzjames inclined his head in acknowledgement. The lady continued:

“After your company set sail – I had such dreadful thoughts, in the early years. Which in no way compare to your experiences, but – it will illuminate what I am about to tell you. Prior to receiving word of your journey home, I knew the final outcome. In my heart of hearts, even when all believed your party simply delayed, I was convinced that the Francis I once sent away in sorrow would never return to me. And I have bitterly, bitterly regretted what passed between us, ever since.”

Fitzjames took a small sip of his brandy. It was the first liquor he’d enjoyed in months. “Regretted declining his proposal? Or Sir John’s part in that fateful decision?”

A slight blush darkened Miss Cracroft’s cheeks. “So you know all.”

“Well.” Fitzjames set his glass aside. “No man save one could claim that to be true. But your uncle spoke to me about the incident during our tenure on  _ Erebus _ . It weighed on his conscience. And affected their friendship, in the end. If you will permit me to break an old confidence, I would share his thoughts with you directly.”

“No.” Miss Cracroft waved a hand. “That is not necessary. Although I thank you. I – it is my own conduct that most often burdens my heart.”

There were no hysterical theatrics or plaintive pleas this time. Her face was stone as she considered this momentous declaration.

“Uncle John was – constrained by what he believed was most correct, as opposed to what had proven veracity, or had perhaps changed with time. And his word on the subject was firm: I, his only niece, should not marry an Irish Naval officer. Not solely because of his birth circumstance, but also because Francis was not – no one admired him as they did the other officers. His presence could not instantly command a room. His men lacked discipline. He had vices –  _ publicly known _ vices. And so, for a time, and because it conveniently aligned with my private feelings on the matter, I upheld my uncle’s counsel over all.”

“For a time.” Fitzjames took another sip of his brandy. “When were your feelings changed, if I may ask?”

Sophia breathed in, and then out, very deeply, prior to speaking again. “I first felt it on the day we went to the Admiralty, to beg them for assistance. It – no one had heard word from the ships in months, you understand. Not since Baffin Bay. And my aunt, though she would admit to naught, was – very afraid.”

“Of course,” James replied coolly. He tried very hard not to think about when such a conversation might have occurred, and what he could have been doing on  _ Erebus _ on that fateful morning.

“Standing in that anteroom, staring at my uncle’s portrait, I realised I had condemned an innocent man to a terrible death.” She laughed this time; it was a terrible, tragic sound. “Francis would never have gone to the polar north had I not begged him. I beseeched him to volunteer, so he could influence the journey; Uncle had always heeded his guidance in past. And I knew Francis did not want to seek the Passage; nay, believed it  _ could not  _ be done, but I thought – ” she faltered “ – I thought – the ships would reach Baffin Bay, or Peel Sound, and go no further. That you would turn back. I did not anticipate – ”

Wincing, she turned her face to the fire, but not before Fitzjames saw a sheen of water shining in her eyes.

“He made the journey because of me. And my cruel folly killed him.”

“Sophia…”

“No.” She choked out, voice fierce but low. “You will forgive me, sir, but no. That is the truth. I sent Francis to his grave before his time. I toyed with his favor, even – ” she hesitated, “ – encouraged his warm feelings, in many capacities. But I would not brook the thought of marriage. And so he left.”

Fitzjames said nothing for a moment.

“In that moment, there at the Admiralty, I realised no man of my acquaintance would love me as fully nor as recklessly as he had.” She allowed herself to shrug, as if this were all an hilarious jape. “Careless though I was with his mind and body, and with his heart, Francis Crozier still went to meet his Maker on my command. Do you not find that remarkable?”

“I did,” Fitzjames told her truly, and meant it. Learning this fact had utterly confounded him while back on Terror. Seeing Sophia Cracroft in person, reflective and thoughtful in a way he had not anticipated, had simply heightened this feeling of surprise, yet provided paths to answers James had sought for years. “I do. He –  beneath all the bluster, and man’s most petty faults – Francis is as true a soul as one could ever hope to meet.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Cracroft, as she sipped the last of her brandy. She was studying him intently, now. “I daresay that he is.”

They sat silent for another moment.

“Do you plan to call on him now, or at any point in future?” Fitzjames asked, by way of breaking the lapse. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he rather appreciated the irony of such a situation. Sitting in The Senior with an eligible, most independent woman of high reputation, completely alone, and demanding to know if she might call on a fine gentleman of his long and rather intimate acquaintance.

Sir John’s leg was probably dancing a jig in its shallow grave.

“Well, I – I should like to try,” Sophia ventured finally. Her gaze was focused on the ground. “If Francis is amenable, I should like that very much.”

“Begging your pardon, sirs.” Without warning, the young footman on guard duty burst into the room, slightly breathless, casting an anxious look first at Sophia and then Fitzjames. “Crowd in the drawing room’s got restless for a sighting. If you are to mind Mister Leighton’s directive – ”

“Thank you, yes.” Sophia drained her glass, and set the crystal aside, lips pursing into a moue of resignation. “I suppose I must go.”

“No, miss – I mean, sir! Only they aren’t interested in – they want to hear Captain Fitzjames tell his stories, see. Hero of the polar north. Savior of the failed expedition. Everyone’s talking about it.” A small pause. “Did some of your men really et each other, sir? On the long walk back? Only one gentleman keeps insisting what he heard, and I should proper like to tell ‘im off if it’s false.”

Upon registering these words, Fitzjames lost whatever appetite he’d managed to whip up by drinking his ration of brandy, but rallied enough to put on a good-humoured face.

“How shockingly ghoulish.” He rose from his seat. “Sir Cracroft, we must away at once, so please gather your reticule. Let us not tempt the other gentlemen with its embroidered finery.” Turning to the footman with a smile, Fitzjames clapped the lad on one shoulder before shaking his hand. Tucked within his palm was a crisp ten pound note. “And now, dear boy, you must keep the hellhounds at bay whilst my counterpart and I attend to an urgent matter elsewhere. Can you accomplish this?”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed the lad, blushing as he stuffed James’s note into his jacket pocket. “Aye, sir. Thank you!”

“Good man.”

He and Sophia escaped down the back stairs, through the main kitchen, and out into the street before anyone was the wiser. Looking back at the old building through the window of Miss Cracroft’s cab, Fitzjames decided that this daring escape was as masterful an act of subterfuge as he had undertaken in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Terrorbytes! OKAY, so once again, I got bitten by a plot bunny and it spiraled out. of. control. Gird your loins, kids. There's so much more to come and I can't wait for y'all to read it.
> 
> Eternal gratitude to @dozmuffinxc for beta-ing all 107 PAGES of this monster.


	2. Chapter 2

_ “What in all the God-damned hells is the meaning of this fucking nonsense, you great arse-faced lunatic?!” _

Enjoying his dippy egg alone at the breakfast table several mornings later, Fitzjames was greeted by an explosion of Irish temper, and was subsequently boffed in the neck by a crumpled piece of newspaper before he could so much as glimpse his fellow Captain. 

Without speaking, he moved the article Francis had tossed at his face aside with his free hand, and endeavored to find the best explanation for his actions. His companion had not cursed so fluently in many months – in English, anyway.

“I assume you mean Miss Cracroft?”

“Assume I – why you  _ absolute _ –  _ fucking – bugger!” _

Standing mere centimeters from the end of the breakfast table, Francis’s face was blotched red and purple from temper. He was breathing heavily, and his fists were clenched tight at his sides. Fitzjames ignored the spew of vicious insults in favor of getting to the point. Consulting the newspaper, he saw what had so enraged Crozier’s senses. A not-inestimable article in the gossip pages, detailing how THE HERO OF THE POLAR NORTH had visited a popular gentleman’s club with a WELL-KNOWN LADY of SOME STANDING. With veiled references to Sir John that were in no way accurate but might reveal Sophia’s identity, if one was partial to those sorts of puzzles.

“Do you not wish to know how I made her acquaintance, then?”

“No, I do not, and I shall not, you fucking God-damned lowlife rascal!” An infuriated Francis kicked sourly at the table leg, which gave a hollow thump. He winced when he put weight on both feet again. It was the bad leg, then. “By Christ, if I could knock you down to a rat-bellied private at this precise moment then I should do so at once. How dare you speak to Sophia Cracroft, alone, without my – my express – ”

“Your what?” Fitzjames inquired. The soldier in his hand dropped to the plate, one end still soggy with egg yolk. “Francis, in all seriousness, I do not know what troubles you most about this matter. I have no ill intentions regarding that woman’s safety, or her good reputation. In fact, I have no intentions in mind at all. And neither have you.”

Francis’s color was still very high, although his shout was more muted this time. “Do not speak to me about my fucking  _ intentions _ , James. You know nothing on the subject!”

Alarm coursed through James’s chest, though he shewed nothing. “I know you care deeply for her, even now. Is that not enough?”

“Why the hell should you speak to her alone, then?” demanded Francis. “Why spirit Sophia away to your – bloody horrid club, all so she can listen to you tell those – rambling, thrice-damned stories? Why not – ?”

He stopped shouting, although the naked sentiment was clear. 

_ Why not tell me? Why not bring her here?  _

Fitzjames heard Francis’s voice clearly in his mind, plaintive and wounded, and decided to take pity on the man. “Have some toast before it goes cold, Francis, and I shall tell you all.”

With a mutinous scowl, Francis walked over, picked a full slice of dry toast off James’s plate, and stuffed this into his mouth whole, until he looked less like a man and more like a furious chipmunk fattening itself up for winter.

“It was a chance yet fortuitous encounter, if you would believe it. Collided into each other, just down the street, there.”

Francis made a resentful noise, but as his mouth was still full of bread, he could not interrupt to refute this account, and so Fitzjames continued speaking.

“Thus, I escorted her to The Senior to safeguard her privacy, as well as my own, as our conversation was not one to be had among strangers.” James exhaled a sigh. “We spoke about Sir John for a rather long interval. Of his strengths, and faults, and – many other things we did not say to the man in life, whether out of fear, or love, or both. She cannot possibly speak to her aunt about the defects in Sir John’s character which contributed to his death. Not as she might speak honestly to those who worked closely with him in his final days.”

Francis swallowed a large portion of his toast, and now seemed chagrined by his fit of black temper. The blaze of red in his face had faded to a dull, blotchy pink. “Oh.”

“Indeed,” said James, and waited to see if Francis might continue speaking. He did not. “I confess I did not consider such a conversation possible, either for her or for myself, but it was – sorely needed on my part, if I may admit to that much. And in turn, the lady seemed grateful to have a kindred soul in such matters.” He shrugged, rather helpless. “In truth, Francis – she – seems rather lonely, if you will permit me to observe it.”

“I see.” Francis scrubbed one hand across his still-pink cheeks. He did not meet James’s eyes when next he spoke. “And did – did she – inquire after – ?”

“Yes. At the end of our conversation, she mentioned she would like to call on us here, at some future date.” Fitzjames dipped another piece of bread into his egg, wishing that he had a lake of yolk in front of him, perhaps to eat with gusto, or perhaps in which to drown himself. Although he could not abide the thought of losing Francis to the institution of marriage, it was clear his dearest friend still carried hope that Sophia Cracroft would one day return his ardent feelings. “To which I replied that you might be amenable.”

“Might be.” Francis went quiet, as if absorbing all the possibilities of that word, before releasing a deep sigh. “God-damn it, James, tell me you said no more. Please.”

“I broke no confidences.” James could not look at Francis, now. “And revealed no secrets. If you are concerned about – ”

“No, you – you are a man of your word. I recognize that. Just as I understand you would not have kept such a meeting from me without reason.” He let out an aggrieved groan. “Hell’s teeth. Why not tell me the truth?”

“You do not like to speak about Sir John,” James said finally. Although it was not the full truth, it was a statement of fact which could not be refuted. “Even to me. And so, keeping that in mind, as well as your long history with his niece, compounded by your illness on the…”

“But I did not have a bad head-ache that day. Not truly.” 

He put a hand over James’s upturned palm, right there at the breakfast table. James glanced up at his friend in surprise. Francis was rarely tender in this manner without reason.

“I was simply – tired. And melancholy. And I could not bear to don the rictus of geniality at that particular hour.”

Wordlessly, James nodded his understanding.

“But I am sorry I have not honored your – if there are aspects of Sir John, or of  _ Erebus, _ which you need discuss in private, I am always willing to hear them.”

James said nothing yet.

Francis’s countenance turned agitated. “It pains me to think you pull burdens I may not shoulder in kind. After all we have endured – everything we share – surely you know this, James. Tell me you do.”

_ Ii, _ he finally answered, saying nothing. It was all that could be done.  _ Yes. _

Francis responded in kind, with the gentle, searching presence James had come to recognize as  _ worried _ .  _ Takuřa'ma. Qauřimařuqtarma. _

Leaning in, James pressed his lips to Francis’s with a slight intake of breath; it had been weeks since he had instigated such a gesture between them, but the simple yet passionate brush of his mouth said all he could not bring himself to voice aloud.

_ Please don’t leave me. _

Instantly, James repressed the thought, pushing it into a far corner of his mind where it could not make itself known. He would not burden anyone, especially not Francis, with such inanities. Not when Francis was so near to reclaiming the life and the woman of his dreams.

_ Malikkama,  _ he expressed instead when they broke apart, and cleared his throat, touching Francis’s face in a tender way, though he did not yet speak.  _ Huli niaqunŋuvit? _

“No,” Francis answered, in their mother tongue this time. Reaching forward, he dipped two fingertips in the egg yolk, before returning them to his mouth and sucking the digits clean, almost smirking as he did so. James tracked the movement of this gesture with eager eyes. “Though I could be persuaded to return to bed.”

Wordlessly, James boffed Francis on the shoulder with one final soldier for disrespecting his breakfast. Before Francis could do more than laugh in happy surprise, James had got to his feet in anticipation of a chase.

“You absolute mongrel. You have ruined my dippy egg.”

“Ah,  _ fuck. _ ” 

Francis bolted from the table at some speed.

They spoke no more of Miss Cracroft, that morning.

  
  
##

 

When Sophia Cracroft finally arrived to call on them, nearly a week hence, James was not even at home, as he had gone out for his morning constitutional, and had not yet returned.

Lying on the sofa with a newspaper in hand, and stacks of books on the ground just below his reach, Francis was serenely occupied and completely at his leisure. Reading was the sole activity he had genuinely missed whilst in the Arctic, and one he was determined to renew with vigor now that he was able to do so. 

When Hanson entered the room, however, Francis was wholly unprepared for what followed.

“Miss Sophia Cracroft,” came the announcement.

A pair of small, shapely feet and the hem of voluminous blue skirts was visible just beyond Francis’s sheaf of newspaper. 

Quickly, Francis sat up, got to his feet, and put the paper aside, desperately hoping his fingers were not as ink-stained as they felt as he buttoned his coat.

“Hello,” he said to her, in lieu of a more formal greeting.

“Hello,” she replied, then turned to the butler. “Thank you, Hanson. That will be all.”

She waited until the man’s footsteps had departed down the corridor before striding over to where Francis stood.

“May I kiss you?” she asked softly.

Bewildered, Francis offered her his cheek; she dropped a small kiss onto his scratchy whiskered jaw before pressing a pale, soft hand to his, and stepping backwards.

“I am most glad to see you, Francis.”

“As am I.” He cleared his throat, uncertain as to what he should do next. “Will – sorry. Would you care for any tea? Something to eat?”

“Not just now.” She took a seat on the nearest settee without fanfare, sinking backwards into the soft pillows and arranging both hands across her stomach. “Although I will sit down. You live terribly far from Aunt Jane, you know. I must have walked miles.”

Francis had not once considered how long or short the distance was to the Franklin household. He was not even certain Sophia still lived there, after all this time. “Oh. That is news to me, then. Erm.”

“Perhaps I should explain why I have come today.” She sat up before he could stammer out some other attempt at inane conversation, and folded both hands upon her lap. “Last week, I informed Captain Fitzjames I would call on you both at a later date. He seemed brightened by the idea of additional company, and so I have arrived as promised.”

Twin desires mixed and knotted in Francis’s stomach as he tried to intuit her meaning. “Ah. Well, I am afraid you have missed him, then. And I do not know when he may return.”

“Or perhaps I have come at precisely the right time,” she said with a trickster’s smile.

Francis smiled back in spite of himself. “Oh no?”

“You will please pardon me if I am interfering, Francis. It is not my wish to inspect anyone’s condition after – everything you have done to return. Only once the gentleman and I spoke, I confess I was quite surprised by our conversation.”

“Fitzjames told me you spoke of Sir John,” Francis offered in a level voice. Better to get it into the open now. “Is that not what occurred?”

“It is,” said she, seeming relieved, “and I am glad to hear you know the subject of our conversation, if only in part. My only concern was in – ” she hesitated “ – not his speech, nor his thoughts on his former commander, but in his very bearing and manner of speaking. He seems rather adrift, when moving through the world. Almost – dimmed, somehow.”

“Ah.”

“Not that anyone else should notice such strange behavior,” she assured him. “Your Captain was quite charming with the waitstaff and any others we encountered along the way. Only I knew that you would have spotted such a small change in his behavior, if you had not done already, and I was – I suppose I wondered how he has been feeling, as of late.”

“As you had not truly met, before,” Francis stated. 

It was not a question.

Sophia inclined her head in agreement. “Not truly, no. Naturally, I remember him vaguely from the Season. And I believe my aunt and uncle invited him to dinner, once. The occasion must not have been memorable on my part, as I do not recall much of said evening. But I have long heard you speak about how he conducts himself in public. Or did, anyway. All those wreathed smiles. Outlandish tales of bravado.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Francis groaned, although secretly he longed to know if James had launched into any of his usual narratives. “I pray he did not favor you with even one of those interminable stories. They’re all worse than Fordyce’s bloody Sermons.”

“This is precisely what I mean.” She gave him a funny expectant look. “That day, when informed that a crowd awaited his return, and should like to be regaled with a tale of adventure, Captain Fitzjames shrank back, and quite refused to speak.”

“Shrank back?”

The humour disappeared from Francis’s face.

“Well, perhaps that is not the correct turn of phrase. He – often times, when a lady is forced to make a reply to persons whom she does not esteem, or does not wish to engage in further conversation, she uses her manners and genteel bearing to redirect the party, in lieu of replying. You have noticed this tactic previously, yes?”

“Yes,” said Francis, although he had no god-damned idea what she meant.

“That is more along the lines of what I witnessed,” Sophia told him. “Before, as you say, I believe the Captain might have told a story of intrigue to any person within hearing distance, if requested to do so. Not necessarily to brag of his own exploits, but because he genuinely enjoyed sharing such wild tales with others. And yet he did not in this instance. He was approached in kindness, as far as I understood it. Perhaps idle curiosity. One of the boys had heard an awful rumor. But the Captain used his considerable charm to pretend the request entirely unmade, and hurried us to the street on pretense of escorting me home.”

“Oh,” said Francis. This was not what he had expected at all. “Well. He – it has been rather an adjustment. Getting back to routes.”

“Well, I should say so.”

“Mm. Although perhaps the reticence would fade if – ”

She furrowed her brow, clearly puzzled. “If what?”

“If he were among friends.” Francis glanced sidelong down the corridor, as if the man himself were going to overhear this observation and demand they fall silent at once. “Your uncle used to put it thus: many unacquainted with the sea think sailors a careless, swearing, reprobate, and good-for-nothing set.”

Sophia looked rather wistful at hearing these words.

“But if anyone could acquaint strangers with the truth of the sea, it is James. He was always the hard-headed sort, ready to prove the world wrong,” Francis continued. “That is why your Uncle John came to admire him as he did. All tales and exaggerations aside, James, ah, shewed himself more than worthy of command, and of his men’s steadfast love.” He paused. “More so than I, in the end. As you can imagine, such an impressive bearing, paired with his good looks, inspires idolatry in some men and black hate among others. But he was impossibly well-liked among our company. Save for a, ah, few notable exceptions.”

“The mutineers.”

“Yes. Of course you are aware of it. No matter.” Francis sat back in his chair. He did not wish to share that wretched tale with her just yet. “My point is this: for many years, James spent his life creating…. well, the sort of name that precludes questions of rank, wealth, relations or other circumstance. And although he would not show it to a living soul, he felt that self-imposed duty immensely. Here.” He touched one palm to his chest. “Keenly. As perhaps no other man I know has done.”

“You were similarly like that, once,” the lady observed.

“Not in the same manner.” Francis exhaled a breath. His hands were trembling, and although he was not cold, he felt he might start shivering in earnest. “Such drive and vigor burns inside him now. It is still there. It was never extinguished. But I am – Sophia, I fear the melancholy when I sense it taking root in his heart. James is unlike me. He does not know how to live with such burdens.”

“Why should you not help him find his way through melancholia? That is most natural.”

“He will not speak to me about it. But I sense its presence.  _ I dream of it. _ ”

She appeared flummoxed. “You dream of it?”

“I – well, further explanation would keep us here a very long time, indeed. Suffice to say that I have noticed the reticence of which you speak. And you are not wrong to come to me with private concerns. It is a mark of your good character that you’ve got so observant. Your uncle would have done the very same, Sophia. The very same.”

Sophia was quiet for a long moment, before reaching out to press his hand a second time. He cursed the butterflies that rose to life in his stomach at the touch. 

“I hope, Francis, that if nothing else, we shall be friends again.”

His eyebrows jumped up in surprise. “Friends.”

“Yes.” She gave a decisive nod. “No matter what has happened between us in past, it seems to me we would be foolish to – to let ourselves drift away in wistful regret. Each of us has enjoyed the other’s company and conversation at one time or another. There is little reason why we should not be able to achieve such sustained enjoyment again. Do you not think so?”

“In truth, I do not know.” Francis tried to smile. “It has been rather a long time since anyone but James has considered me an intimate friend, at least in the manner you have indicated. I fear I may be awful at such things, being so out of practice.”

Footsteps now echoed down the corridor, followed by James’s voice. “If ever I am to get one moment’s peace in this blasted city, Francis, it shall be too late. I was nearly knocked ass-ways into a lamppost by some tit-faced politician and his damned cur of a – ” 

When he reached the doorway, he stopped in his tracks, shocked into silence.

“Hello, Captain,” offered Sophia, with a little wave. “Your backside was not injured by said lamppost, I do hope.”

“No, it was not. I mean, I was not.” His mouth still open, Fitzjames cast a curious look at Francis, who did not elaborate aloud as to why Sophia Cracroft was currently in their living room. Clearly, the man did not know whether to stay or turn on his heel. “I – apologize for my uncouth language.”

“Oh, tosh,” said Sophia in a merry way. “Think nothing of it, sir. Uncle John and his comrades have used much worse – that is, when they did not believe I was listening.” She favored James with a cheerful smile. “Francis and I have only just decided to be friends again.”

“I see.” James returned the smile, although the happy expression did not quite reach his eyes. Francis wondered if he were also overtired, or if something else had happened during the outing. He had a greenish look about him. “Well, that is heartening news indeed.”

“And you shall be my friend, also. Won’t you, Captain?”

Francis cast an amused look at the lady. She sounded less like a knighted man’s lady niece than a cherubic little milkmaid speaking to a flock of sheep, demanding in turn that each of the beasts reveal their names so they could talk more freely together.

“Of course,” James finally answered. His voice came out rather muted, although the sentiment was very fine indeed. “We shall all be the – very best of friends.”

Francis tried and failed to hide his pleased countenance. This effort lasted for all of several seconds before James continued speaking, in a more mirthful tone:

“Lest we forget, Sir Cracroft, you and I have been close comrades in arms ever since our most stupendous meeting at The Senior.”

And then Francis was overcome by a wave of purest annoyance. “Oh, God’s blood, Sophia, why in heaven’s name does he call you  _ Sir?” _

“La! Did you not know, Francis? I was fully knighted by Her Majesty for my many contributions to the Empire.”

James smiled more broadly, and came to sit near them. 

Surprised by his comrade’s receptivity to this very silly mood, Francis turned eager eyes to their guest, hopeful that such convivial harmony should continue.

Sophia regarded the two gentlemen with utmost seriousness. “I will tell the whole story to you if you are willing. Now, pray, do not become frightened. When I was a young lady of zest and nerve, I once spent an  _ entire fortnight  _ as the esteemed dinner companion of Sir William Parry.” A deliberate pause. Francis had to bite his tongue to keep from howling with laughter.  “The four and ten evenings we spent together were an arduous, most wretched experience, the likes of which has not been repeated by an eligible woman in many years. And when our Queen was told of such spirited daring in the face of adversity, she sent word for me at once.”

Even James was chuckling. “One can see why you were so recognized, Sir.”

“Thank you,” intoned Sophia. “The honor is mine.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes! 
> 
> The quote from Sir John Franklin is straight out of [his biography](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks13/1301261h.html&sa=D&ust=1533772501428000&usg=AFQjCNHJqLZe8kyxYMwEP5duzFWLMtwUfw), compiled by one Miss Sophia Cracroft and many others.
> 
> I got the majority of my Inuktitut translations from [Tusaalanga](http://www.tusaalanga.ca/node/2502), apart from the few words I tried to conjugate myself, based on their v. helpful grammar guide and glossary. Hopefully none of you are fluent in Nattiliŋmiut. 
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Takuřa'ma. Qauřimařuqtarma. = You see me. You know me.  
> Maiikkama = Because I followed.  
> Huli niaqunŋuvit? = Do you still have a headache?


	3. Chapter 3

The damned thing was, James rather liked Sophia Cracroft.

Or, rather, he liked having her presence in the house, at least temporarily. Strange though it was to spend time with someone else apart from Francis – who, indeed, often drove him to the brink of madness for lack of patience – she was a lively and spirited addition to their ragtag bunch. Sophia was no man’s old nag; she did not sweep up after them or scold them for unbuttoning their jackets whilst home and in repose. However, she took care of them in her own way, particularly Francis, without ever tipping her hand.

And she was a damn good card player, to boot.

“Queen of Spades.” Facing them around the little card table, Sophia revealed the turn-up of the first deck, and gave Francis and James a satisfied smile. “Well, gentlemen. You may name your purchase price when ready.”

“Blast it, Sophia,” complained Francis, who was currently glaring at his stack of cards, all lying face-down, as if each of the three objects had done something rather vicious to him in secret. “You’ve given me all god-damned fives, is what you’ve done.”

“Charming,” deadpanned Sophia without glancing over. She met James’s knowing eye with a mischievous wink. “And you, dear sir? Is your current hand dealt to your satisfaction?”

“Most happily.” James brushed one fingertip over the raised corner of his own stack. “I imagine I shall speculate so well that there will be no need for a second round. Although in fair warning: the pair of you shall be tragically impoverished once I am through.”

“How utterly Dickensian.” Sophia glanced now at Francis. “Captain Crozier? Your top card?”

Francis made a disgusted face, and promptly tipped one card onto its face.

“Jack. Of course.” He tossed a penny into the shared pot; it clinked angrily against the rim of the ceramic bowl. “I don’t much care for this game.”

“You do not like anything so close to suppertime.” Sophia paid this petty grumbling no mind. Wise choice, and quite astute, considering Francis was now ruminating over how loudly his stomach kept growling. “Fitzjames.”

Slowly and with great solemnity, James turned up his top card, which turned out to be the Queen of Hearts.

“Hello, you red rogue,” he told it,  _ sotto voce _ . “Now go and sell yourself to the highest bidder, there’s a good girl.”

Sophia spoke up first. “Well, I should be willing to buy her for the proper price.”

This prompted a scoff of outrage from the other side of the table. “Jesus, Sophia. You already have one queen.”

“But I do not yet possess this one.”

“Why in god’s name should you need to purchase a second, when the first can’t even help you win the bloody pot?”

“Because it  _ could _ help me win the pot, dear Francis. What if the winnings remain untaken, this round?”

“You know as well as I do that it is statistically rare – with nary more than a seven percent chance – that four aces out of fifty-two total cards might make their way into the spare hand only.”

“Then perhaps I have a second strategy in mind,” Sophia countered sweetly. “Have you perchance consulted a speculative businessman in recent weeks? Only I should think he would declare a seven per cent profit to be quite fine in his estimation.”

“Madness. If the Royal Navy were given an estimation of seven per cent success for any particular billet of goods, or worse, for a large expedition, you’d be laughed out of the Admiralty before they could say Waterloo.”

Lord, Fitzjames could watch the pair of them argue for hours. Like witnessing a Shakespearean comedy brought to life in his sitting room. The rest of the room seemed fuzzy and unfocused in comparison to their lively back-and-forth discussion.

“Well, perhaps I should be thumped, if I repeated Uxbridge’s mistake and led the cavalry charge. Wellington himself should have confidence in such a strategy. I’ll not lose eight or nine horses whilst attempting to disguise my extreme inexperience.”

“Oh, getting grape-shot in the leg, are you? Pray inform us once your hellish mad campaign is concluded. We’ll charge a fee for tourists to come and pay respects to your winning trump.”

“Who would not lose a leg for such a victory?”

The pair of them were giggling together like children, lost in each other’s company. Fitzjames wanted desperately to laugh alongside them, yet without so much as a warning, he went suddenly rigid with distress. Bone-clenching cold as he had not known in months washed over him as fully as if he were back on King William Land, and within the span of seconds, he was standing on deck in the dead of night, with two clumsy gloved hands wrapped around a rough rope. His Welsh wig was soaked, as were his woolen slops and the middle of his boots. Skiffs of hard-packed snow and ice sliced his bare face like waves of tiny daggers. Frozen fingers clenched haplessly and his back strained in protest as they aimed the cannon toward the mist-shrouded fighting top. The creature’s heart-stopping roar echoed through the wintry air.

_ Two inches. One more! _

In front of him, a kneeling young man screamed in pain as the flesh of his palm was ripped clean off by the bite of cold metal. Leys? Hartnell? Was it one of his men, or Terror’s?

The cannon clicked into place with a harsh snapping sound.

_ FIRE! _

“James. James.” A distant voice: Francis. “Can you hear me?”

The icy maw in front of him melted away and was replaced by Blanky’s low, pained rasp, as a smaller group huddled together in Terror’s dank, oil-lit surgery bay.  _ I feel like we jus’ got engaged and want to celebrate. _

Fitzjames inhaled the pungent brass of blood mixed with whiskey as Blanky howled with pain. The sharp sound of MacDonald sawing through splinters of bone was stomach-curdling.

Shivering, he struggled to breathe, to flee, but he could not move, now stuck to his chair in Terror’s Great Cabin, watching a hunched and grey-faced Francis detail his upcoming misery in starkest detail. 

_ We mustn’t stop. I mustn’t stop, and you mustn’t let me. _

“Francis,” he whimpered.

_ I may beg you.  _ Tears falling from tired eyes. Hands already shaking from the loss.

“James.” Rough palms on his arms, his face, his hair. “Answer me, man. Where have you gone? What do you feel?”

“C – cold,” he choked out.

“Right. Beyond that. Where are my hands? Can you locate them?”

Fitzjames took in a sharp, shuddering breath. There was a slight pinching sensation somewhere near his temples.

“On – on my – ears?”

Finger and thumbs kneading both his earlobes, nearly to the point of pain. The sensation helped distract him from the unceasing pressure on his chest.

“Got you by the lug holes. Good lad. Now let’s use those ears a bit, hm? What do you hear, James? Listen.”

“Er. Wind. Wind – outside.”

“That’s the storm,” came another voice. “It’s been raining.”

James was relieved to recognize this tone.

“And – Sophia.”

“Aye, good man. She’s here with us.” Francis moved his palms, so they rested on James’s shoulders. “Can you feel my hands still?”

“Y – yes.”

“Good, good. Now. Tell me what you’re seeing, James.”

“Blanky,” James gasped first, as another frightful wave of memories threatened to pull him back in time. “Dangling from the riggings, Tuunbaq on his heels.”

A woman’s high, shocked voice. “Tun – what?”

“Ah, Christ,” said Francis, rather faint. His voice got tinny for several seconds. “ – all right. He always was a tough old bastard. Tell me who’s near. Are you still on the main deck?”

“No. We’re in your – your cabin, and I – you’re giving your pistol to Little.” 

With a low cry, James began to shake. 

_ Going without will kill him. He’ll die in agony, and I’ll be alone, and I – I mustn’t – _

“Don’t focus on that, James. Listen to me here. We’re on dry land and half-pay. You had soldiers for breakfast this morning. The sun rose at ten past six. Jesus wept, are you hearing me? Feel my hands, James. Am I wearing gloves?”

The effort of speaking was tremendous. “N – no.”

“That’s right. And my fingers: how do they feel? Cold? Wet? Blue? Frostbitten? Am I missing any pieces?”

James blinked, and suddenly the images of Terror were gone. The plain card table in front of him slowly came back into view as whiteness receded from his vision. It stood at a steep angle, now; with a start, he realized he was lying propped on the settee, with Francis kneeling at his side, one hand splayed across his shoulder and the other clutching James’s clasped fingers very tightly. His bold blue eyes were shot through with fright, although he tried vainly to smile.

“How are my hands, James? Their condition.”

“Warm,” James finally answered, brushing the tip of his index finger against Francis’s thumb. It was as difficult as if he were trying to pull a full sledge by his lonesome. Although the skin was nowhere near as rough as it had been in the Arctic. “Dry.” The pad of his finger snagged on a sharp hangnail. “Augh. Your nails are – still wretched, Francis. Honestly.”

“There you are.” Francis exhaled in clear relief, smiling at James in earnest, now, as if this insult had just made him the happiest man in the world. “Where are we, Captain?”

The area behind him had become very clear and delineated.

“Home,” James replied after a moment, eyes falling closed. His head was swimming, his heart was pounding, and he felt sapped of all strength. “London.”

“Good man.” Francis tapped his chest twice with an open palm, then let his hand linger over James’ racing heart. James wished he would rub slow circles against the muscles there, to ease away the last of the pressure. “You’ve got it.”

“Wha – ” James could hardly turn his head. “Wha’happened?”

“I could not say.” Sophia did not sound her usual confident self. “One moment, you were with us, and – and the next – it – Hypnos himself overtook you.”

“God-damn it all t’hell.” Shutting his eyes again, James wished the floor would open wide and swallow him whole in its gaping jaws. He was slurring his words. “‘M sorry.”

“Oh, my dear James, no.” Sophia seemed as if she were moving throughout the room, opening cupboard doors and drawers and making all sorts of noise. “Francis, is there not – he ought to have a draught of brandy, or whiskey, or – or perhaps – ”

“‘S none here, S’phia.” Fitzjames drew in a shallow breath. “Francis’s dry now.”

A long pause. He could not hear what Francis said to the lady in reply, if anything, but soon, a warm Irish voice curled around his senses once more.

“Here. I have laudanum, James. Take some.”

Joined by a single expressed thought:  _ Rest easy. _

A metal spoon, still warm, soon touched one corner of his lips; automatic, James opened them a fraction, and allowed the cool, syrupy tonic to trickle into his mouth. Calloused fingers then stroked the underside of his throat, supported the back of his neck, as James swallowed the dose as best he could. His mouth felt desert-parched.

“There. That’s it.” Francis’s hands soothed over his arms, shoulders, chest. Smoothed hair back behind his ears. James felt his body relax for the first time in what seemed like hours. “You’re all right now. We’re home, and safe, and among friends, hm?”

“Tired,” James huffed.

“Sleep, then. There’ll be no more of these spells tonight.”

“‘M on las’ watch.” James felt warm sun on his skin, and burrowed down into his hammock. A salt breeze blew in from the nearest coast. “Wake me f’supper.”

“Course we will.” A hand in his hair again, soft and slow. “Promise.”

  
##  
  
  


Now upstairs with Sophia in the small drawing room, Francis was forced to steel his nerves to prevent himself from rushing back to the sofa. Although he did not want to be poor company, his instinct was to hurry Sophia out the door and inspect his dear friend’s steady breathing for the next several hours. 

Which was damned idiotic of him, obviously. James was fast asleep and would not wake till the morrow. The laudanum would take its course. And he would be all right. He would be. These awful episodes always passed in time.

“Francis?”

Startled, Francis realised that Sophia was standing directly in front of him, a glass of water proffered in one hand. He had no idea how long she might have been there.

“Sorry.” He accepted it absently, took a tentative sip. “Thank you.”

She studied his hang-dog expression with mournful eyes before taking the glass from him again, and setting it aside. 

“How long has he been like this?”

“Christ. I don’t know. Can’t even remember now.”

Was it like this on the long walk? Before Silence was killed? Before they found Ross – or rather, after Ross found them among the Netsilik? He could not pinpoint the exact moment when these episodes began. One day, James was more or less bearing up, if weak with the full-bodied, broken-glass pain of scurvy and starvation, and then suddenly, he was not. His consciousness would ebb and flow at the slightest provocation.

“A long time,” Sophia observed, and sat down next to him. Her hand came to rest on his knee. “Do not pretend ignorance, please. I see how serious a matter this has become. How deeply his condition worries you.”

“Worries.” Francis slumped forward, put his face in his hands with a groan. “Fucking  _ terrifies  _ me. He – chrissakes, Sophia. The things we saw. The choices we made. T’would freeze a normal man’s piss right in his bladder.”

“What would?” she asked. Her voice shook slightly. “Seeing death?”

“Not just that.” He could not raise his head. “A captain expects men to struggle. They sicken and argue or – are felled by hidden forces. But he mustn’t  _ condemn them to that fate. _ He mustn’t lead tortured souls to the ends of the earth without reason. Yet that is what occurred.” His words were falling quickly, now. “My failure to dissuade Sir John got us iced in on Beechey, and beyond.  _ My weakness _ brought chaos and dissent to our two ships.”

“Surely such chaos could not be helped.” Sophia’s fingers squeezed his knee. “My uncle was lost. You were second-in-command. James must have – ”

“No. He spent months impositioned at my hand,” Francis interjected. “Hell’s teeth, even your uncle hated me, at the end.  _ You’re weak in your vices because your rank affords you privacy and deference.  _ Those were the last words he spoke to me in life. He knew I’d lead my men to ruin. A craven, weak,  _ selfish _ captain, prepared to abandon ship in their hour of need. All this fell on James’s shoulders – ”

“Shhhh.” Sophia’s arms encircled his shoulders now, pulling him up from his slump almost into a mother’s embrace. He bent his forehead to her bosom as pitifully as a milk-drowsy child. “Sweet Francis. It is not your cross to bear alone.”

Her voice was taut with unshed tears.

“He pulled me across the ice.” Francis wept bitter tears. His face burned hot with shame. “Scurvy-ridden – starving.” 

“He wanted to live.”

“I’ve failed him.” Francis finally whispered. “And as punishment, ‘m losing him.”

All the thoughts he had vainly tried to keep to himself – willing them back again and again – now tumbled into the forefront of his mind. How beautiful the man was when he truly smiled, or got oddly cross over his damned dippy eggs, or when he lay naked in Francis’s arms after a particularly satisfying tumble. And James was in no current state to decipher or be impacted by Francis’s true feelings. 

Christ on a sodding sixpence. He might never be.

“You have not lost him.” Sophia stroked the back of his neck. “And you will not. No-one can say your efforts were self-serving.”

“The Admiralty does. And they are right.”

“How can they be? Dear Francis, you fought tooth and nail to keep a hundred and thirty four men alive in the most inhospitable conditions. Three years wintered-in on the ice! A third of your crew sledging across King William Island! No one else has survived it.”

“And my men paid for it in blood.  _ They shot me for it. _ ”

Sophia said nothing else for a few minutes. Held in her arms, Francis attempted to compose himself, and to breathe evenly. Tried not to see Cornelius Hickey’s sharp-toothed grin, just before he’d pulled the trigger.

_ We’re going to live now, Mr. Crozier. While you’re going to die. _

“Sophia,” he repeated over and over. “‘M sorry.”

“Hush, now.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, still stroking his back as sweetly as she might pet an injured dog. “Dear Francis. It’ll be all right.”

  
  
##  
  
  


Later that week, Miss Sophia Cracroft was occupied with a critical and most daring mission: pretending to feign interest in the gentleman Mr. Snow as he and Lady Jane drew up their outline for the writer’s next book:  _ Voyage of the Prince Albert in Search of Sir John Franklin. _

“Now, my Inuk contacts in the region tell me there were more than three expedition survivors,” Mr. Snow was saying to Aunt Jane. “Several smaller parties were spotted, with which some of whom the Inuk were able to make contact. It is how they procured so many articles from the ship and from your husband’s private stores. Devilish thing is, we have no way of knowing their Christian names. Many of these found men were given new ones, you understand, as the Esquis cannot pronounce ours. Here, you can see it in my notes from twelfth March.”

“Oh, Mr. Snow, this is welcome news indeed.”

“Undoubtedly, Lady Jane. Look you here, in the margin. This is what I indicated in my final letter.”

Aunt Jane adjusted her spectacles on her nose, and read aloud very carefully. “Billy One-Leg – my, is that truly his given name? – estimates five to six survivors. All are known by Inuk phrases. The first: Tal – excuse me.  _ Tal-rik-toog.” _

“Beg pardon, my lady. That last is  _ tuk. _ Like the tropical bird with the orange beak.”

“How very fascinating.” Lady Jane continued to sound out these names. “Ah –  _ ah-gloo-kah _ . Hm. Rather like that one. Cue - goodness. Is that really how it begins, Mr. Snow? I do not believe I can pronounce it.”

“ _ Qoi-to-yok _ ,” said the gentleman, after consulting the familiar scrawl. “Who must have been someone of great importance; I assume the fellow was well liked, at any rate. My hosts smiled from ear-to-ear from the moment his name was brought up, and their merriment did not cease for several minutes hence.”

“Ah,” sighed Lady Jane with a wistful glance. “I know exactly whom I should wish it to be. Let me see. This entry is quite mysterious.” She shewed him the paper. “Is it the last?”

The gentleman looked pleased. “‘Tis indeed the last, my lady. I have reason to believe this man was an officer. The Inuk spoke of him most reverently, as if they both feared and loved him.”

Lady Jane stuttered over the phrasing. “T – ton – no, perhaps tune or toa – ”

“ _ Tuunbaq _ ,” uttered the gentleman.

With a start, Miss Cracroft snapped to attention as quickly as if she had been jabbed by her embroidery needle. It was perhaps the first interesting phrase the gentleman had uttered since his arrival some hours ago.

“Pray, what did you say, sir?”

Aunt Jane and Mr Snow looked up from their work, surprised into silence.

“Ah, Miss Cracroft! How marvelous that you have taken an interest in our little book.”

“I am only curious as to the name,” said she.

“And so you should be!” To Aunt Jane, as if Sophia herself had gone quite deaf, and could not hear them. “My lady, your niece is most beautifully learned.”

Sophia strove to keep a pleasant countenance as Mr. Snow continued.

“As I said, this is a title of respect likely given to a person of some standing. The word in question is of traditional Inuk origin, meaning a sort of vaunted spiritualist. Just as the savage heathens in other countries have their own primitive shamans and healers, so too, the Inuk have their  _ Tuunbaq.” _

In the back of her mind, James’s voice, high and panicked:

_ Blanky in the riggings – Tuunbaq on his heels! _

Francis kneeling at his side, desperate to calm the poor man.  _ Ah, Christ, that fucking hell-beast. Well, that’s all right. Blanky was always a tough bastard. _

“I see. And it – you would define him as a person, Mr. Snow? This, ah, Toonbak _?” _

“Tuunbaq _ , _ ” corrected Mr. Snow fondly. “That is most correct, Miss Cracroft. It is a title of nominal importance, given to a limited few persons, and nothing more.”

_ No. I do not think that it is, _ thought Sophia Cracroft with a slash of fury, but she did not let the smile slip from her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Taliriktug = "strong arm" - this becomes Crozier's _sixam ieua_ name in the book.  
>  Aglooka = accounts vary as to who Aglooka was, and which person best survived the Franklin expedition. Show uses this as Crozier's Inuit name, I do not.  
> Quitoyok = he who pisses a lot. I HAD TO USE IT, GUYS. Bonus to the first person who guesses this alias.
> 
> [Voyage of the Prince Albert](https://archive.org/details/voyageprincealb00snowgoog) was actually a real book! And if you haven't already read about how Lady Jane Franklin turned to clairvoyants and a coterie of randos in order to help her find Sir John, do. It's real weird. Mr. Snow is also a real person, who wrote to Lady Jane out of New York claiming he saw Sir John's final resting place in a dream. AND SHE PAID FOR HIM TO COME TO ENGLAND AND THEN GO LOOK FOR HIM – okay, I'm done.


	4. Chapter 4

_ 19 August 1851 _

  
  


_ Honored Sir– _

 

_ I pray this letter finds you well and in excellent Health. Since I was uncertain as to your most recent London address, I made inquiry with both the Admiralty and with the Royal College of Surgeons; this was the last-known residence yet filed on record. If indeed I have reached you in earnest, you will please excuse me for imposing on your most valuable time in this manner; I am afraid I have few knowledgeable persons to turn to regarding the particular answers I seek. I can think of no greater Experts to turn to in this matter save yourself. _

_ My Aunt, the indomitable Lady Jane Franklin, continues to outfit ketch after ketch in search of my late Uncle – although she will not, as of this writing, admit to his loss. This most unfortunate fact is not what I write to inform you, as I am sure you are aware of her expeditious and numerous London fundraisings. Instead I find I must impose upon thy healing nature and the honorable Strength of Character you did shew throughout your time on my Uncle’s Expedition. In truth, I confess I write to you on behalf of Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, two of my Dearest and most Beloved Friends, in a perhaps reckless, even naive attempt to better understand what those dear men endured, so that I might provide them succor in episodes of distress. Captain F– in particular is still very troubled. _

_ Though they do not yet know I write to you, both men speak often of your valor and of your kindly disposition throughout the voyage, and how that stayed unchanged even on the treacherous journey home. In my heart I also believe, although neither will confirm it aloud, that they would not have been returned to me without your Compassionate Care and loyal companionship during the long walk – and for that, you have my everlasting Gratitude. _

_ Here, then, comes the topic of which I am in need of expert advice; it is in the study and comprehension of a language few Englishmen - or indeed, few people of my wide acquaintance - are able to decipher with true accuracy or skill: Inuktitut. You know far better than I that both Captains C– and F– are near-fluent in the tongue, or at least some form of it; but due to their most Distressing Misfortunes, they will often begin speaking in this language during casual conversations, often without knowing they have changed over from the King’s English! More understandably, they do not wish to examine this peculiar habit in leisure, or, indeed, to elaborate on the words which they use most freely.  _

_ Consequently, I find I must petition you as a learned man, who was most Kind and Helpful to his fellow expeditioneers, to educate me further with regards to this gutteral Arctic language. My own ignorance in the matter can no longer be abided. If you do not possess time enough to reply to such an odd request, or, indeed, possess no desire to tutor me upon such phonetic details even briefly, then I am most Understanding of such demands upon your person, and shall Impose on you no longer. However, if you may spare a moment or two - no more!  - to indulge my Sympathetic Curiosity, then I should be forever grateful to you, dear Doctor, for such noble and most worthy assistance toward our shared Friends. _

_ Enclosed you shall find a list of several Inuktitut words and phrases I have heard uttered in my presence, but have been unable to translate successfully in my own time. I pray these are familiar to your knowledgeable and Discerning Eye, despite my rather crude spelling and attempted definitions; and that your extensive work on the subject might better assist me in the reading and speaking of this language. Additionally, if there are other persons or indeed other resources that may also be of service to me on the subject, I pray you shall point me in their direction, so that I might contact other linguists familiar with such terms, or study new materials in private to the best of my abilities.  _

_ Kind sir, with luck I shall remain your obedient servant and most humble pupil, &c _

 

_ Miss Sophia Cracroft _

  
  
##  
  
  
  


The call came from the anteroom with mere minutes left till he intended to lock up. “Beg pardon, m’lord – I mean, doctor, sir – but there’s a highborn lady out here what needs tending to. Go on, love, ‘e ain’t afeared t’treat a woman for nought.”

With a sigh, Harry Goodsir got up from his desk, ignoring the skittering of mice in the attic above his head, and raised his voice beyond its usual rasp.

“Thank you, Mrs. Crawford. You may come through, madam.”

He was not certain what sort of person Mrs. Crawford deemed  _ highborn _ , all things considered, but when the lady in question walked through the door and into his surgery, he was immediately struck by her steadfast bearing and confident manner. On first impression, it was as if she had never been troubled – nay, even sick with a simple cold – in her entire life.

“Doctor Goodsir, I presume.” She gave him a regal nod, and extended her hand. “Sophia Cracroft. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Surprised, he grasped her fingers and quickly relinquished them, unsure as to why she had introduced herself so formally. 

“Actually, it is Mister Goodsir.”

And then the reason for her visit popped into the forefront of his mind.

“I take it you have come about your letter.” Pushing his spectacles further up his nose with one hand, he crossed to the paper-strewn desk in an attempt to locate this article. A full stack of unfiled forms toppled off the front of the surface and clear into the dingy tile floor. Of course it had. Wonderful. “Ah. I, er, had meant to reply sooner, but have since quite mislaid it.”

“Oh, that is quite all right,” said the lady. She was straightening up from the floor with a small circular object in hand. “Although I had wondered. But no matter. If you are amenable, we can conduct our conversation face-to-face.” She glanced down at the object still clutched in her hand, pinching the circular rubber-enclosed spring rim together with her fingers, so the walls of the little cup flexed and bent with the movement. “Such a funny little device. What does it do?”

At that moment, the doctor took note of what it was: a mother-sized cervical cap.

“Oh. Well. That is a contraceptive device, intended to prevent the conception of children within the marital union. A great number of my patients have weak constitutions, which preclude the ability to be safely delivered of a child. The device – ‘tis made of galvanized rubber, as you may observe – is meant to assuage a widespread societal malady.”

Miss Cracroft did not blush or sputter, simply stared at the half-spherical device in her hand, wide-eyed, as if he had pronounced it nothing short of a saintly relic. “How utterly fascinating.” She studied it for another moment. “Pray, can you tell me how it works?”

Well, if they should now throw propriety to the winds, then he may as well be as forthright as possible. “One must be fitted by a doctor so as to ensure full efficacy. T’would be utilized prior to the act of union.” He cleared his throat, and felt embarrassment color his cheeks at last. “But I do not believe such topics arose in your letter.”

Although now he was quite uncertain as to her express visit.

“Of course, sir. To business, then.” Opening her reticule, she produced several sheets of paper, and placed these on his examination table. “I have writ down additional phrases since first contacting you.”

“And your wish is to – to have these words translated into Inuktitut?” Goodsir quite gave up on re-discovering Miss Cracroft’s original missive, and crossed to the table, where he leafed through her proffered papers. “For the purposes of writing?”

“Not precisely,” said the lady, and met his gaze full-on. “I should like to learn the language fully, if you please.”

“Fully,” echoed the surgeon.

His gaze fell on a bit of slanted script Miss Cracroft had provided as an example:  _ Blanky in the riggings, Tunbakk (?) on his heels.  _

Without warning, his heart dropped into his stomach. 

“Forgive me. I must sit down.”

Grasping for the nearest chair, he lowered himself into the upholstered seat with a suppressed groan. His hips and joints creaked angrily with the movement. 

Even this much was agony.

“I am sorry if I have caused you pain, Doctor Goodsir,” Miss Cracroft said after a long moment. She was preoccupied in studying the honors that were roughly hung along one wall. Mrs. Crawford had nailed them up in a rough way, so each was hanging uneven. “As previously mentioned, I am quite removed from such trying experiences. All I can share with you is that which has been gleaned from context, no more.”

Goodsir studied the rest of her questions. Most of these were very detailed notes on unusual phrasings; bits of information which did not usually filter out of the Admiralty or to the Navy at large. He did not know why such figures of speech should have been dropped in casual conversation. Although a new bit of knowledge from her last letter occurred to him.

“You mentioned Captain Fitzjames was troubled.”

She turned to face him. Her countenance had gone very still. “Yes. He – I do not know the proper medical term for his ailment, sir, but often times he will be transported back to – your time in the Arctic. As vividly as if he were reading the account aloud from a page. And he then becomes frightened. Visibly so. For minutes at a time.”

“And these figures of speech. They are taken from such episodes?”

“Yes. Or from France – forgive me –  _ Captain Crozier’s _ attempts to calm him. I have endeavoured to record each term as accurately as possible.”

“An admirable effort.” Though the recollections they prompted were excruciating, Goodsir could not help grudgingly admiring the woman’s ear for languages. Likely this was a benefit of her excellent education; any close relative of Sir John Franklin would certainly have learnt French, Latin, Greek, and other topics which would assist in the figuring of new words. “What is it that you wish to learn, Miss Cracroft?”

“Inuktitut,” said she, as if the undertaking were simple as that.

Such an innocent answer brought an honest-to-goodness smile to his face, and a faint stirring of the same pride he used to take in instructing a particularly curious student. “‘Tis more complicated than that, I fear. Each region of the Arctic speaks a different variant of Inuktitut; thus, the version to which our party was most attuned is specific to the Netsilik. A – well, you do not likely care how long their territory spans. Suffice to say you may study as many materials as you wish, although the great majority available to you will not differentiate between such finite linguistic markers.” He sighed. “Most scholars do not believe it worthy of further energies. That the Inuit are a simple savage people. It is a misapprehension I have worked to correct.”

“And so you have made such distinctions, sir? Within your own work?” 

Miss Cracroft fixed him with a rather expectant look.

“Where at all possible, yes.”

“Then I pray that you will assist me in navigating such nuances.”

Something about the sharp flick of her eyes as she took up pencil and paper again brought to mind an image of symbols told through strings, and nights spent by an oil lamp in the stores of Terror’s kitchens. He shook his head to cast these images aside.

 

_ Summer, 1848 _

  
  


_ Captain Fitzjames put a hand to his sallow jaw, now rippled with red rash-like lesions, as he strove to answer Goodsir’s question. “The teeth ache constantly.” _

_ Gently probing around his lymph nodes, mouth, and jaw, the diagnosis was confirmed. It was progressing in severity. Not that this was a surprise. They had run out of their antiscorbutic weeks ago, and had been subsisting on a diet of cold Goldner’s tins or weevil-infested biscuits since leaving behind the larger stove. _

_ “It is as you suspected, Captain.” Goodsir stepped back, deliberated a moment. Now that they were unpacked here at Rescue Point, he had been able to take further inventory of his supplies. “A moment, if you please.” _

_ Rustling through his medical satchel, underneath the carefully-wrapped daguerrotype slates and various personal articles, the doctor’s fingers finally closed around a small unlabeled bottle, nearly empty, as well as its completely-full twin, lying next to it. He produced both of these with a heavy sigh, and turned to face Captain Fitzjames, lowering his voice as he spoke. _

_ “Here. Take this.” _

_ The Captain, compliant as a tired child, did not argue, simply opened his mouth. With no ceremony, Goodsir broke the seal, stuck the dropper into the bottle, and placed six drops of this unguent under Fitzjames’ thrush-white tongue. _

_ Its taste must have been unfamiliar, because the Captain sat up, frowning, and gingerly touched his mouth as if he knew not what he consumed. _

_ “That is not laudanum,” he said finally, quiet. _

_ “No.” Goodsir let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, then reopened them. It did not ease his exhaustion. “Extract oil of nettle.” _

_ The Captain continued to stare at him, apparently stunned into silence. After the loss of lemon juice, men had perished from scurvy in droves every day. And now here he was, informing his Captain that there had been a possible remedy for it all along, here among the camp. Although nettle oil could not have helped forty men, or even twenty, or even five survive the scourge through the summer melt. It was a curative Goodsir had sworn not to reveal until absolutely necessary, meant for perhaps three persons at best. Only those who might survive till they reached Fort Resolution. Those who were most necessary to this journey. Not himself, obviously. _

_ He took care to keep his voice low, so they could not be overheard. “I had hoped to save this till the end. Seems our hour of need is currently upon us.” _

_ Fitzjames’ expression was inscrutable. _

_ The surgeon gave a small shrug. “Physicians in training are instructed above all things to preserve as many lives as we can, as quick as we can, according to highest priority.” _

_ With a trembling hand, he pressed the second bottle into Fitzjames’s palm, and gently folded the Captain’s fingers shut. _

_ “Doctor...” _

_ “No,” insisted Goodsir. His mouth twitched as if he were about to cry, although he was so parched the water simply could not be spared. “Here, I have ultimate authority, and this is my order. Six drops every day, under the tongue, for at least two weeks. Three drops at minimum, if supply runs low.” _

_ “Let the men have first use of this. I beg you.” _

_ “Captain, we look to you to lead us from this place.” Goodsir did not release the Captain’s hand just yet. “And you – you cannot do so wrapped in sailcloth.” _

_ Fitzjames’s face crumbled, and for a fraction of a second, Goodsir saw the man hiding beneath the title. No matter past heroics or current duties, in that particular moment, he seemed as frightened as the youngest ship’s boy. Although poor Arryn had died weeks ago. _

_ “Doctor, I cannot...” _

_ “Please.” Goodsir pressed the Captain’s hand a second time, and then withdrew. “I beseech you. If not for me, then....” He changed tactics mid-sentence, scarcely mouthing the next few words. “You know the threat Crozier faces.” _

_ Mutiny. Injury. Assassination. _

_ Goodsir’s instinct proved correct. Within half a minute, the Captain had composed himself more fully, and was slipping the tincture bottle into his threadbare jacket pocket. _

_ Goodsir touched the Captain’s arm before he could retreat. _

_ “You may dose up to two others at the lessened rate. No more.” _

_ Fitzjames simply nodded once, and adjusted his jacket. Within moments, he had gone. _

  
  
##

 

Absorbed in some type of writing, with several stacks of notebooks at her left hand and a full inkwell at the top corner of her desk, Sophia was quite oblivious to her surroundings, and had not moved from her position in nearly two hours. After finishing _The Scarlet Letter_ \- which was frankly far less scandalous than he’d wished – Francis had hoped he would be able to surprise her by sneaking up alongside.

However, just as he was walking toward the desk, the bad leg made him stumble, and alerted Sophia to his presence.

“Damn!”

She did not look up. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he sighed, falsely maudlin for a moment. “What are you writing?”

A pause. “Letter to Great-Aunt Elizabeth.”

Hm. Francis remembered Sir John’s stories about an Aunt Elizabeth: a harpy of some renown even with regard to a teetotaling straight-laced Admiral. “Is this not the elderly Aunt Elizabeth who passed prior to our voyage?” Another odd fact tumbled into his mind. “Who once switched Sir John as a boy for  _ sinful thoughts _ ?”

Another pause. Sophia’s fountain pen continued scratching against paper.

“By my reckoning, I wager you are up to something more than letters,” he murmured in a low voice, and walked closer. 

One finger playfully teased along the edge of her notes, where five pages were currently drying facedown in a row. Francis was quite tempted to snatch up the lot and read them, but decided against it, as seeing Sophia so absorbed in such work was, in truth, rather adorable. While her temper at being interrupted during such a task would be much less so.

“Perhaps,” she demurred, and finally glanced up with a half-smile. “I shall tell you what it is very soon, if you can have patience.”

“Miss Cracroft, I am unerringly patient,” responded he, in that same playful tone. “As you are most certainly aware.”

A wry laugh tugged at her mouth, but she gently removed his hand from her papers, and then shooed him away as briskly as if she were dismissing a horsefly instead of a curious friend. “Be off with you then, Francis.”   
  



	5. Chapter 5

September had been one of the more successful months James could remember having since their return to merry old England. He had not had any nervous spasms in weeks. The weather had been unseasonably yet pleasantly warm for autumn in London. And Francis, far from being his misanthropic self, was positively ebullient as of late, possibly from the happy coincidence of being left to his novels for hours, if not days at a time. As a result, he had become keen to accompany James on his morning constitutionals, was thoughtful and inquisitive regarding other topics not to his interest, and most inclined to continue their friendly socializing with Sophia Cracroft. They had seen neither hide nor hair of newspapermen, Admiralty officers, or other dreaded interlopers in over a fortnight.

All these things came to a boil on the penultimate Sunday of the month.

“This is a – a day of rest.”

James nearly panted with desperation as Francis maneuvered him backwards into the dining room, and got down on his knees in front of him. The house was empty. The servants were attending services.

“So ‘tis.” Francis’s brogue deepened as his nimble fingers found James’ buttons, and yanked down both trousers and breeches past his knees; James inhaled an anticipatory breath. “And do you not find this restful, James?”

“I find – ” his fellow captain’s hands drove him to distraction “– you most – ”

 _Irritating,_ he meant to growl, but the actions that followed soon proved otherwise. With a hum of satisfaction, Francis leaned forward and took James’ bare prick into his mouth. James bucked and groaned from the hot wet stimulation, hands coming to tangle in Francis’s soft hair. He could hear the unspoken yet triumphant exultation in the back of his mind. _Ah, ha. Something to quiet you at last._

“Mmm.”

Francis had already snuck one hand into the front of his own breeches. James would never tire of watching that pale Irish complexion blush a mottled red and pink with arousal, or of the sheer pleasure of watching Francis Crozier, Expedition Second, suck off his Third like a common knee-trembler would service a private in a back alley.

With a wet, obscene noise, Francis pulled away, and began to nip at James’s thighs, his stones, even the base of James’s prick. When he licked a long, lascivious stripe from root to tip, then took James fully into his mouth once more, pairing this caress with the firm yet knowing stroke of one hand, James cursed aloud.

“ _Hellfire_.”

His eyes fell closed in pure pleasure. But when he opened them, seconds later, it was not Francis Crozier who next caught his eye.

Just beyond the doorway, silent and rigid with shock, stood Miss Sophia Cracroft.

“Francis,” he hissed, stumbling backwards against the table. The sight of Sophia, here of all places – mouth open, cheeks pinking, hands clutching at the bodice of her dress – sent his senses reeling. But he could not force his hands to push his lover away. No matter that they had now been witnessed, no matter that this act was unnatural in the sight of God and man – all James could do at this precise moment was stare at Sophia, as she stared back at him.

And then Francis flattened his cheeks, sucked James a little harder. In response, James’s knees buckled, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Any last vestiges of rational thought fled from his mind.

“Oh, Christ, _Francis!_ ”

Spurred on by the noise, Francis moaned around him; one hand caressed James’s sack as he continued to suck James off. James’s hands tightened around the lip of the table as he felt the familiar tug behind his groin. Good Christ. He was going to jism _now_ , and Sophia bloody Cracroft was going to – going to – oh, god, the thought alone was enough to spur him straight to the edge: _Sir John’s lady niece_ ; inquisitive blue eyes locked on their indecency, seeing Francis on his knees like a common whore, exposed, sucking James’s prick to completion, while James came off like a shot into that wet red willing mouth –

His face was aflame and his legs were jelly and suddenly, he was thrusting forward into Francis’s sinfully hot mouth: boneless, yelping, as Francis took everything James had to give him, hummed and groaned around him as one callused hand caressed everything within reach. Dimly, as if from a far-off world, James registered the hot spatter of seed around his ankles and bare feet as Francis reached his own peak.

By the time James opened his eyes, unwound clenched fingers from Francis’s hair, the woman in the hallway had gone.

And he could not be certain she was ever there at all.

  
##

 

“My dear, your color is far too high.”

Starting, Sophia glanced up from Sunday dinner, the majority of her plate still untouched. She had not heard a word Aunt Jane had uttered in the past five minutes, or, indeed, perhaps all day.

“Oh, Soso,” repeated her aunt, now with a sympathetic look. “Are you taken ill?”

“Yes. I – have a head-ache,” Sophia finally managed, tremulous. “I believe I shall take a powder and – and return to bed.”

Alone in her room at last, the throbbing in her temples and chest and between her legs seemed only to increase in speed. Sophia could hardly contemplate such an impossible notion. Immediately upon returning this morning, she had fled to her room amid an empty house, yanked at her laces and pushed aside petticoats to snake a desperate hand between her legs, and had consequently frigged herself until her body was as limp as a cooked vegetable. With the curtains yet open to the street!

And it had still not been enough.

The measure and frequency of her want was as unyielding as rough stone slamming against a ship’s hull. All she could picture, again and again, was the lovely vision of Francis – _her Francis!_ He who had once been so inexperienced and timid! – on his knees in front of James Fitzjames, handsomest man in the Royal Navy, mouthing wantonly at James’s stiff prick as if it were the most natural and beautiful act in the world. With James visibly eager for more: overcome past the point of speech. Together, their dual appetites had run glorious and insatiable. It was the most erotic tableaux she had ever witnessed – let alone mentioning the fact that such an interlude had occurred between two gentlemen!

She supposed she had never really considered how men should satisfy themselves on the longest voyages – not in a dispassionate or thoughtful manner, at any rate. As a young girl of nine, she had once glimpsed her aunt and uncle – then merely courting, la! – amid a private moment, shortly before he had departed for his first Arctic voyage. But even this unfortunate spying had not provided clear answers to such intimate yet complex questions. Now the forbidden topic was all that filled her mind. How did men in such close quarters make do without even a harlot to soothe their animal lusts? How long did it take for them to turn to each other for physical contact and mutual satisfaction? Were there many such arrangements between each man and a few trusted companions? Were these aberrances limited only to officers – in that senior members could parlay these activities among their own class, as could the lower-ranking men between themselves? Did they grow out of friendships and attractions, as flirtations between men and women should similarly develop? Did it occur on all ships? In every branch of military service? Did not these men grow to care for and cherish each other as these arrangements continued apace, as she had enjoyed and appreciated stolen moments with her own lovers? What happened when they returned home?

More than lust had been present in James’s eyes. She would wager a fortune on that.

Just before he had glimpsed her in the doorway, for a fleeting moment, she had lain eyes on a James who was completely come undone, most primal in selfish urges and stripped of all his usual affectations. Utterly bewitched, he had gaped down at a disheveled and debauched Francis with awe in his eyes, whilst his elegant hands threaded through Francis’ red-blonde hair; at once both shockingly tender and utterly overjoyed, as if he could not believe such a moment to be true.

The Irishman – transfixed in his licentious task – had not seen this telling expression pass over James’ face, nor had he registered any of the discoveries that had followed, being utterly wrapped up in their mutual satisfaction. Yet James had witnessed all, and he had still – he had not stopped even for a moment –

Lord! She was ready again merely thinking of such a scene.

Beautiful, flushed Francis driven mad with desire and compellingly eager to please, spilling into his own hand with abandon as James released into his mouth, weak-kneed, open-mouthed, and entirely unashamed by these most peculiar acts.

It was at once impossibly thrilling and impossibly depraved!

That night, Sophia even _dreamed_ of such passionate embraces, although the dream went quite askew from what she had so vividly glimpsed: this time, James and Francis were not at home in London, but enclosed within a circular shelter created entirely of snow blocks. Animal hides of unknown origin were strung up along the sides and ceiling and arranged artfully on the floor, so that although the wilderness outside was bitterly cold, the persons inside stayed quite warm.

Drawn to their presence as a moth might have pursued a flame, she watched in vivid detail as Francis, lying naked on his back amidst the furs, trembled and submitted to James’ gentle mouth with overpowering ardor, whilst James laved kisses across his soft mouth and scruffy jaw and well-defined chest.

And with them – with them, eventually riding naked astride Francis’ strapping frame in slow, sinuous motions, was the most captivating woman Sophia Cracroft had ever seen. This stranger possessed an almost regal face. Silhouetted in the dim light, her fierce dark eyes sparkled with intelligence, her warm olive-brown complexion contrasted beautifully against Francis’s flushed, freckled skin, and her almost tomboyish figure belied her true strength. Although she appeared terribly slight without her furs, and said little, Sophia knew instinctively that this magnetic creature was a woman in full bloom, as powerful as any man. It was she who had constructed their shelter, and hunted their food, and brought them here.

Bizarrely, Sophia could even picture this fast, fevered clinch the way Francis himself must have done: feeling this lovely woman’s slick flesh pressed round his stiff prick as she demanded his attentions – such incredible tightness and tension! – and James’ tormenting, willing lips mouthing hot against his ear and down his whiskered jaw. Long naked cock pressing eagerly into the cleft of Francis’ right hip. Silence’s small, dark breasts cupped in two shaking palms. A third hand caressing her leg and rump as she moved. And a warm, rich brogue echoing loud and obscene around the dimly-lit space.

_Ah, Jesus! Christ, it feels – don’t stop!_

Uninterrupted and at their leisure, they made love for hours, perhaps even all night, until their snow house quite melted around them. And this time, when Sophia flew apart at her own hands, she could not have determined where the consciousness of her dreams ended and her own body and mind began.

  
  
##

 

“Oh, hello, dearie!” Outside in the anteroom, Mrs. Crawford sounded positively jubilant. “Lord, but don’t y’look half-fagged, girl! I ‘ope you ain’t ketching the awful cold – oh, of course!” Slightly louder, as footsteps rushed toward the closed door. “Doctor, sir, ye’ve a proper visitor!”

Goodsir sighed, and put away his notebook, attempting to quell his melancholy thoughts long enough to save face in front of this visitor.

Sophia Cracroft strode inside. One look at the lady’s pale countenance did make him wonder, briefly, if she were feeling ill. Her color was high and there was a nervous catch to her voice, when she finally spoke.

“I am so sorry to intrude, dear Doctor, but I – believe I find myself in need of your expertise once again.” A short, high laugh, rather awkward in its squawk. “Terribly sorry. May I – I should like to sit down?”

Without further explanation, she strode over to his examination table, and did so, then lay back fully, as if she were too overwhelmed even for that. Goodsir had not the heart to tell her that a little chimney-sweep’s boy had been sitting in that spot less than an hour prior, and that lying in repose on that table, on this particular day, would likely result in a layer of coal dust on the back of her dress.

“I have – I am – monstrous distracted,” she finally said, covering her eyes with both hands. “Of course you have noticed. How could you not notice? I am standing right here in front of you. Goodness. Except I am not standing, I am – I am – well, you must pardon me, sir. There are formalities and then there is rudeness, plain and simple.”

“Miss Cracroft, are you – unwell?”

A question he had not found need to ask in several months.

Sitting up, she pulled her hands away from her face, and took a deep breath. “No, I am not unwell, sir. I am simply – I will be shockingly honest with you, should you permit it.”

“Of course.” He adjusted his glasses. Perhaps this was a call of necessity, and not of learning. “It is part and parcel of the profession, as you know.”

“Yes.” She bit her lip, and glanced toward the unlit fireplace. “All right. I – are you aware of the, erm – well, of intimate particulars, regarding ship’s men? How they – excuse me, perhaps you also have personal experience in this matter – how you and your fellow sailors might sate your baser urges whilst on a voyage?”

Goodsir blinked once. Twice. “Eh?”

“Not – I do not mean buggery – oh, golly, I suppose that could be part of it, upon reflection – but – but _other_ acts. Of a, ah – pleasurable nature.”

The surgeon nearly blushed, which was shocking enough. He did not believe he _could_ blush any-more. But this feeling of acute embarrassment only intensified as she kept talking.

“I went to visit James and Francis whilst everyone else was at Sunday services and it – Francis was on his _knees_ in front of him in the dining room. He used his mouth to – to bring James to – ” she lowered her voice to a whisper – “I have taken several lovers in my life, doctor. I have the basic facts, as they pertain to _knowing_ a man, and of course, getting children. But this was beyond anything I had _ever_ beheld with mine own eyes.”

A series of images and facts Goodsir refused to dwell on positively fell into his mind. How Captain Crozier had refused to yield to his Third in the early months of their voyage. The way Captain Fitzjames had complained near-constantly about Crozier’s absence from _Erebus._ How keenly Fitzjames had watched Crozier, every day, on the long walk. The muffled moans that sometimes echoed around the fo’s’cle late at night, or near the privy, or in secluded corners. And behind all that, Alec’s young, lad-cracking voice echoed in his ears: _oan yer trolley, ye fucking weapon!_

“Good lord,” was all he said aloud.

“Yes.” She let out a shaky breath, pulled her fan from her reticule. “You must excuse me. It is hellish hot in here.”

“I – do not believe I understand the question behind your observation,” he observed after nearly half a minute’s quiet. In truth, he had quite forgot it. “Erm. Is there a question, or are you simply – ?”

“Oh, yes!” Sophia seemed to recover her wits. “If you are comfortable speaking about this at some length. I do have – I did not wish only to gossip.”

“All right.” Goodsir did not know what to do with his hands, and so he brought out a sheet of paper. “I shall, ah, endeavour to answer as best I can.”

She seemed equally at a loss. “Well, how does it work?”

“How does what work?”

“Two men,” she said, as if this solved it. “Having relations.”

He put down his pen immediately.

“Are – hm. From an anatomical standpoint, I – theoretically, there are several ways it could be done. I suppose.”

“Have you tried any of them?” asked she.

“I – no.” He was too shocked to create a falsehood. “Have you?”

“Sir, I believe you have answered your own question, as I am not a man.” Miss Cracroft managed a tremulous smile. “But you do take my meaning, yes? It would be...outside the usual realm of relations.”

“Well, I have heard of such things, certainly.” Goodsir, for a moment, reflected on the gossip he’d heard onboard _Erebus,_ about men like Hickey and Manson, or even men like Fitzjames, who were too beautiful for their own…. “Personally and, er, professionally.”

Sighing, he went to retrieve one of his anatomy textbooks from the shelves, and after consulting the index, flipped to one of the larger diagram pages. Using the pen in his hand as a pointer, he gestured toward each part of the male organ as he spoke.

“You can see here. The pudendal nerve divides into branches, first at the inferior rectal nerve, then the perineal nerve, before continuing to the dorsal nerve of the phallus. This nerve can also be stimulated also by the glandular assistants, or prostata, found just below the bladder, here. Joined to the seminal vesicles.”

“Ah. So I see.”

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “The biology of it is simple. The pudendal nerve merely supplies sensation to the phallus and perineal canal. Or, or to the, ah, dorsal nerve of the clitoris. In - females.”

“Oh, is _that_ what it is truly called?” Miss Cracroft brightened, and attempted to peek at the next page; chagrined, Goodsir was forced to reveal the corresponding female diagram. “How marvelous.”

Perhaps they were finished now. Perhaps he was done.

“Is there some sort of further text on the subject of men only?”

“On inter-male relations?!” exclaimed Goodsir, nearly forgetting to keep his voice level.

Miss Cracroft did not laugh. “Yes.”

He had no possible rejoinder for such a serious reply. Perhaps sensing this, the lady opened her reticule at last, producing several pieces of paper.

“I – would not ask if such ignorance did not weigh on my mind, you know.” A pause. She unfolded the paper. “Only I am – ever since I witnessed it – the two of them together – I am experiencing the strangest dreams. They – are full of people and locations I do not recognize. I view events as if from an entirely new perspective, not my own. And there is one person, a woman, whom I – continue seeing, with James and Francis. They all became lovers, you see. Over there.” She cleared her throat. “Though I do not know how such an arrangement came to be, I find it – well. Companionship of any sort, in such a place, is remarkable in my eyes.”

Wordlessly, she handed him the paper.

Goodsir took it, adjusted his glasses, and felt the melancholy surge back into the forefront of his mind. Looking at the exquisite likeness of Silna, beautiful, clever Silna, sketched finely in dark pencil, he felt as if he’d swallowed a parasite that was now eating him alive, staring through his eyes, and steering him through his duties.

“How did you do this?” he asked in a rasp.

“Is she familiar? Do you know her?” Miss Cracroft seemed hopeful. “I daren’t ask the captains about her, you see. It – seems very painful.”

 _Ii._ Sometimes, in the dead of night, when his joints ached like broken glass and the world seemed too awful to bear, he could hear her voice ghost across his senses. Remember the cool touch of her hands on his shoulders, and her whisper against his mind. _Hinikpit?_

But the knife-sharp pain of glimpsing Silna’s face after all this time was less horrible than the dolorous and crushing weight that he still carried, all things considered. Staring at the portrait, Goodsir wanted to weep, but simply placed the paper on the desk, face-up, and patted it with the palm of one hand.

“I do. And – it is a good likeness, in truth.” He hesitated. “May I keep it?”

“Yes.” Her expression was much altered, now, almost sympathetic. “I am terribly sorry to impose, dear doctor. Only...”

“You do not know who best to ask.” Goodsir summoned up a smile; it was tremulous, and nearly slid from his face, but it was necessary. Best not to showcase his own misery. “I do understand.”

She smiled back, seeming similarly reserved, and gathered up her reticule. “Well. Thank you for – for your time today. I believe I ought to leave you now. Language practice is the farthest thing from my mind, I’m afraid.”

“Mine as well,” replied the doctor. There was much to mull over, after all.

Miss Cracroft had stood, dusted off the sides of her skirts, and crossed to the door before Goodsir blurted out a final word.

“Wait!”

She turned, brow furrowed in puzzlement.

He swallowed, once, and willed his voice into steadiness. One person in the world should know her name. Should remember her as she was. Even if it could not be him.

“Silna.” A pause. “At first, the men called her Lady Silence, as she rarely spoke aloud. Simply…. through signed symbols.” He cleared his throat again. “Her name was Silna.”

Miss Cracroft stood still. After a few seconds, she closed her eyes, seeming to absorb the name, and the weight it carried, into every fiber of her being. Without fanfare, her eyes fluttered open again.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I shall call on you again in a fortnight, as scheduled.”

 

_four days later_

 

“God, I’m bored.”

Lying on his back on the settee, without even a scrap of newspaper to entertain himself, Francis felt it only fair that the rest of the room understood this unfortunate fact intimately. Reclining on the floor amid a mountain of pillows, Sophia had been oddly quiet all morning. Even now, although she did not speak, Francis was certain she would have some smart reply to this aggrieved remark. It would be sharp-tongued. Brief.

_If you want to be entertained, go to the theatre._

“Sophia, I can almost hear you shouting at me,” he grumbled.

“Good,” she huffed, and fell silent again.

Outside, the fingers of a long tree branch scraped against the glass window panes.

“Francis.” James’s response seemed more forbearing. The slow creak of springs echoed from the opposite sofa, as he shifted on the cushions. “Can you not find another book to occupy the time?”

_Shall I have you holystone the lower deck?_

“No, and no. And the one I’ve borrowed’s god-awful,” he answered in a petulant tone, crossing his arms across his chest. “Nowhere near stimulating enough to hold my attention.”

He expected this might draw out a rather cheeky remark about what _could_ stimulate him, expressed through their usual link, but perhaps James was more exhausted than expected, as there was no reply.

“Oh!” Frowning, Sophia sat up, and glanced around her surroundings. “Goodness.”

“You get a feather-spine in the arm?” Francis asked.

“No.” She did not lie back down. “Just – thinking. That’s all.”

“Right.” Francis growled out a sigh. Why was everyone so damned silent to-day? James could not be approaching another one of his episodes. He’d been sleeping well, and nothing particularly bothersome had occurred within the past few days. Save for another damned letter from Ross, which Francis had taken particular joy in tossing into the fire. Nothing good could come of that foul idiot’s unceasing campaign to speak to them.

“Stop _doing that_ ,” Sophia hissed aloud, breaking Francis’s train of thought. “You’re driving me mad, James!”

James appeared mutinous at being accused of – whatever he had done to offend Sophia. Which, to Francis, was truly a mystery. Perhaps he’d been toying with his cufflinks again. “What are you talking about?”

The baleful glare she gave him in reply was easy enough to translate, even if Sophia did not share the connection he and James did.

_You know exactly what you’ve done._

James’s face reflected purest outrage in return.

Francis could take no more of their childish fucking lunacy.

“If you two’re going to snipe at each other like two bloody ship’s boys, I’m going to have a lie-down.”

 _Don’t bother waiting for me,_ came the frustrated retort from James’s mind. _Going to walk, anyway. Clear my head._

Suited Francis fine enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [apparently](https://www.jurology.com/article/S0022-5347\(15\)00813-7/pdf)people have been writing about the prostate for-fucking-EVER?? Shows what I know. Anyway, I thought it would be HILARIOUS and awful for Goodsir to be the Toby Flenderson in this situation.
> 
> (@dozmuffinxc, in the background: NO WONDER HE KILLED HIMSELF.)
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> oan yer trolley, ye fucking weapon! = Scottish for GTFO. I figured if Goodsir wouldn't curse, one of his brothers would!  
> Hinikpit? = Are you sleeping?


	6. Chapter 6

_December, 1851_

  
  
  


“What do you think of these?”

Standing in front of his open wardrobe, James glanced at the wool trousers Sophia held out for inspection, and made a disagreeable face.

“Hideous. Completely unsuitable for public viewing.”

“You are not wrong, sir.” She pulled out another pair, which appeared equally threadbare. By God, when had all his clothes become so horribly shabby? Had they always been in this condition? “Will these do?”

“No. Suppose I shall just have to visit my tailor sooner than next month,” he sighed in answer, and flopped down into the nearest armchair, next to the window. “Unless you think you might perchance wear them.”

“Hm. I do not think these will fit,” said she, but cast the garment a sidelong, almost considering look. “Although perhaps I shall try them for riding.”

Within moments, she had crossed the room, and turned her back to him. “If you will start the laces, it will be quick work.”

Fitzjames was momentarily glad he was reclining in a chair, as such a shocking comment might have otherwise had him in a dead faint. Swallowing hard, he attempted to make light of such a charged request. “Am I to be your steward today, Sir Cracroft?”

She made a delighted noise. “Absolutely. Come now, Fitzjames. I must dress for the day.”

Amused, and willing to be led along in this play for a few minutes at least, he reached out and unknotted the laces of her bodice with an almost steady hand, before loosening the stays ever so slightly. Although the majority of her gown stayed in place, James witnessed the tension drop out of her shoulders almost immediately, and watched as thick brocade fabric gaped open and rippled in the back.

“Will you fetch my clothes, just there?” she asked, gesturing toward the trousers.

He made a noise of assent, and got to his feet. After he had gathered the indicated garment, he crossed over to the bureau and pulled out a shirt, collar, and vest. The selection did not matter. It was all in good jest.

“No use trying one without the full ensemble.”

Sophia giggled out loud. “Yes! How perfect. Here, put it on me.”

And she pulled both arms out of the dress bodice, then discarded it on the edge of the bed, so she was now standing before him in a visible steel-boned corset – jet black – and plain chemise beneath it. Her skirt and other underclothes remained in place.

“Here,” offered Fitzjames, as he had no recourse but to continue acting as if this were perfectly normal. “We shall put the shirt on you first, sir.”

She held out her arms, and allowed him to slip each arm into first one sleeve and then the other, before guiding the shirt up pale, shapely arms and squaring her small shoulders in the middle of the garment. Truth be told, it fit her better than he would have imagined. Perhaps he had lost too much weight on the long walk. Francis always said so.

“Did you have a steward of your own, Fitzjames?” she asked, plucking him from what could have been a bout of melancholy thoughts. “You are quite skilled at this.”

“Well.” With a spot of brightness, James thought about  _ Erebus _ and his daily routine. “Hoar was your uncle’s before he came to me.”

“Hoar. Hoar. I seem to recall that name.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Was he very serious? I am picturing a severe sort. My uncle so adored pious earnestness in servants.”

James walked around to face Sophia, so he could properly fasten her buttons. Although her comment might have seemed disrespectful to a different sort of person, Fitzjames had privately complained about Sir John’s extreme religiosity many times. Mainly to Francis, who had not cared much about the argument either way.

“You know, he was not so stern as many might have you believe. However, he was very fastidious. I estimate he took in my trousers eight or ten times alone before the scurvy got to his fingers at last.”

Sophia’s voice was very steady, as if she were trying not to react. “Ah. I see.”

“Nothing like Francis’ boy, though.” A genuine smile crossed his face as he thought about Thomas Jopson. “The jibes I overheard there. You’d have found them amusing.”

“Really?”

“Mm.” James’s fingers were now untying the laces on her skirt. “First thing you ought to know about Jopson is that he was a bit of a dash. Always keen to help the officers in any circumstance. Never complained. Always smiled. Boyishly handsome.”

“I am sure Francis most appreciated such pleasing looks,” teased the lady.

“Appreciate the lad he did.” James indicated that he was going to draw her skirt down to her feet; obligingly, Sophia allowed him to do so, stepping first her left and then her right foot out of the empty waistband. With a huff of surprise, James noted she was wearing what appeared to be four or five petticoats. “Jopson went above and beyond his duty in that regard. The Erebites used to joke – believing themselves quite out of my hearing, naturally – that he’d just as soon kiss Francis on the mouth than bring him a glass of whiskey in the night.”

“La!” Sophia gave him a cheeky grin as he pulled down another petticoat from her waist. “Well, let me guess: Francis took no notice of such obvious sentiments.”

“Correct.” James undid the third. “You might even say he was quite ignorant of them.”

“Ah,” sighed she. “I can almost picture the poor boy now, following Francis room to room like a pitiful motherless duckling.”

“Indeed, Sir Cracroft.” The fourth, and then fifth petticoats joined their brethren on the ground. Sophia was now clad only in her drawers, with the tails of James’s shirt hiding her chemise, corset, and the waist of the aforementioned undergarments from his eyes. “Here. We shall do your trousers first.”

“Capital.” Sophia put a hand on his shoulders to steady herself as James helped her into first one leg and then the other, and gingerly brought the garment up to her waist. Compared to Francis, she was so slight he was almost afraid to touch her. “Goodness. These are quite cozy. I see why you have kept them so long.”

“They are, aren’t they?” James fastened the buttons, deciding not to fiddle with the button-fly, and pinched several inches of fabric between finger and thumb. Perhaps if he could find a few stick pins, she could walk about in the garment in earnest. “Here, hold this.”

Whilst rummaging through his bureau, he could not help continuing the story he had begun earlier. “I shall share a tale even Francis does not know to better illustrate my point. In summary: Jopson was chosen specially by Francis to be his steward, as they had served together on another Arctic voyage. Now: you know that as our main supplies dwindled, so, too, did the officers’ private stores. Treats we had saved specially. Wine. Port. Liquor. And, finally, poor Francis was quite forced to dry out, so to speak.”

“Yes,” said the lady drily, as if enjoying her own private joke. Carefully, she released her hold on the waistband of her trousers just as James wove the first and then the second straight pin into place. “I am slightly familiar with this topic.”

“Course.” Fitzjames let out a wistful sigh. “Poor man was wracked with the horror for over a fortnight. The effect really was brutal. And dear Jopson, bless him, made a patient and truly saintly nurse in such trying times. Barely left the man’s side, even to sleep.”

“I imagine Francis was not in the best of tempers throughout,” Sophia observed.

“Indeed he was not.” James pinned down the pucker of fabric so it better resembled a true and well-fitting waistband, then picked up the grey tweed Burford vest. Its pointed front hem, notched lapels, and silvery buttons would complement Sophia’s complexion rather nicely. “But at any rate, our most forbearing Jopson nursed him back nearly to the cusp of health, or something approaching it, before the first sunrise.”

“Now, one evening, Jopson had come to Terror’s kitchen to fetch the captain his supper. Several of the officers were present but not within sight of the men – I do not recall why, particularly.” Something to do with the Goldner tins? Or perhaps Edward’s taking over for Francis? Everything blurred together in his mind. “Anyway, just as Mr. Diggle was handing over the tray, Jopson’s hand slipped, and a bit of lamb stew slopped over the side, taking the utensil with it. So the first exclamation out of Jopson’s mouth was  _ oh, bugger me blind! _ ”

“Now, naturally, Mister Blanky, being of a mischievous sort, was next to speak.” He pinned the back of the waistcoat so it better fit Sophia’s waist and figure, before moving round to do up the buttons. “Before poor Jopson could barely blush, Tom Blanky glanced up, looked him clear in the eyes, and rasped, “at ease, Tommy boy. Think Crozier’s so starved ‘e’d only gob-fuck yer fingers to get down even a morsel o’ stew gravy.”

Sophia’s eyes shone with mirth. “I remember Mr. Blanky’s little japes. He was always so fond of shocking a group.”

“And had so shocked most of London, yes,” James agreed. “As you may imagine, it put poor Jopson completely out of sorts. Thus, his first retort – not well-considered by any means – was most unfortunate.” Arranging his features into an outraged frown, he rounded on Sophia, tossing imaginary fringe to one side in a frustrated manner. “ _ He is the  _ Captain, sir! _ He wouldn’t  _ have _ to!” _

“Goodness me.” Sophia burst forth in laughter, holding her be-shirted and yet still-corseted middle with both hands. “Oh, that poor boy.”

“Blanky and I kept up the joke for ages, as you may assume. Nearly to the end.” James shook his head, wistful. “Good man, he was.”

_ Francis misses him so. _

With a sigh, Sophia gestured that he should pick up the jacket and hat.

“Do you think those two – Francis and his steward, you understand – had a, ah, true arrangement between them?”

Absorbed in brushing lint from the shoulders of her jacket, James was quite unclear as to what she meant. “What sort of arrangement?”

“A – well, an  _ intimate _ one,” she finally murmured. “Whilst on Terror.”

His hands stilled on her shoulders.

“Oh.”

“If you do not wish to speak of it, that is no trouble.” Her hands smoothed over her waistcoat pockets. James wished he could not feel the rate at which her breathing had quickened, or hear her next, inadvertently-expressed thought.  _ Was it only you?  _  “Only I – I find myself unable to dwell on much else, all things considered. Whether two men – or perhaps others – shared kindred feelings, or tenderness, or – something far beyond, in the bleak midwinter.” She let out a shallow huff. “If you will believe it, my sympathy for this Jopson fellow grows stronger by the minute.”

At that, James did pull his hands away from Sophia’s shoulders, unsure as to how wise it was to continue touching her in such a manner.

“Will you please affix my hat?” she finally asked, following a long silence.

“Ah.” He was not certain what was the strangest part of this particular situation, but strove to forget she had uttered anything amiss. “Of course, Sir Cracroft. Post haste.”

“You often do that, you know.” All this as he was pinning stray blonde curls beneath the hat brim, in an attempt to conceal her elegant updo. “Call me Sir after I have done something far too silly for your liking.”

_ Do not downplay your affections,  _ James insisted, transmitting his thoughts directly to her this time. He wanted to press his hand to hers in a gesture of understanding.  _ Sophia, you care deeply for Francis, and that is neither silly nor worthy of anyone’s derision. In fact, it is one of your most admirable qualities. _

“What in blazes are you two doing?”

James lifted his head, saw Francis in the middle of dropping off his coat. He was clearly as stunned as if he’d witnessed them both performing a full Irish dance.

“Ah, my dear Francis!” He swept a long, exaggerated bow before straightening back to full height. “Allow me to introduce my old friend, a winning and devilish-fun chap of many years’ acquaintance. Without further ado, I present to you the imitable Sir Sophian Cracroft, who shall be staying with us very temporarily.” Sotto voce to Francis. “You may note he has most excellent taste in menswear.”

Sophia stifled a giggle behind one hand, but mimicked James’ gallant bow. “How do you do, sir?”

Francis still looked gobsmacked, and said nothing aloud except a soft, stunned: “Hello.” 

“Well, Francis?” James’ eyes were merry with mirth. “What do you think of my friend Sir Cracroft? Is he not exceedingly handsome in such finery?”

“I have forgot a – a parcel in the bookshop,” stammered Francis after several seconds.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and fled the room with a speed James had not witnessed since the earliest days of their acquaintance, when Francis would rather be held at gunpoint as soon as look at him. Indeed, he had departed at such speed he had even left behind his coat and mittens.

Downstairs, the door squealed closed on its hinges.

“Blast,” whispered Sophia, whose ebullient mood had visibly deflated. 

_ Did he not like it? _

On instinct, James clapped a hand to her shoulder in a pitiful attempt at comfort. Why Francis had chosen that particular moment to retreat in a melancholic snit was far beyond his reckoning. He had closed off all thoughts to further investigation.

“Don’t know. Anyway. It’s all right.”

  
##  
  


Leaping in the summer sunshine, every inch a young boy again, Francis was more contented than he could ever remember, spinning around and around so that he might see the hem of his beautiful pale yellow dress float up like a flower in the gentle wind. The wilted purple stems clutched in his dainty, impossibly smooth hand were sweating from the strain of being held for so long, but they would be all right. Uncle John’s new friend would put them in water once he got back to the house. Perhaps she could also teach him how to weave a wildflower crown. He never quite could get the plaiting right, but Miss Griffin was so talented with it. She was so wonderfully pretty and friendly and Francis loved her so much.

The sounds of multiple voices on the paths beyond the back garden drifted across the fields, and Francis glanced up immediately, knowing what it meant. 

_ Uncle John! Uncle John! _

Black patent boots raced along well-worn ruts as Francis rushed to greet his beloved uncle. His bright yellow skirts did not fare nearly as well as the sturdy little boots, gathering mud and sticks and debris all the while, till his hem was six inches deep in mud. Yet he was too excited to stop running. So when he burst into the big clearing, saw Uncle John standing by the branch-seat of his favorite weeping willow tree, he fully intended to rush over to the man and leap into his arms.

But Uncle John was not alone on the willow seat today, and he was doing something very strange with the second person. Bent at the waist, tightly hugging a woman from behind, he had his front pressed against her back. Her skirts were drawn up around her knees. The shock of this sight was so deep that Francis was stunned into full stillness, still breathing heavily. The flowers in his hand dropped to the ground. 

Francis saw the lurid scene with two gazes, then. The first, no more than a child’s, reflecting surprise, then confusion, then fascination mixed with fear as a horrible frisson of energy traveled from the base of his spine and itched somewhere deep between his legs.  _ They are doing something naughty. It makes me feel horrid. Oh, don’t look!   _ The second: his own, fully-formed mind, marveling at the complete god-damned irony of it all: Sir John Franklin, pride of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and esteemed pious Christian, fucking the future Lady Jane Franklin arseways against a tree in the middle of the morning, in full view of the entire animal kingdom.

Without warning, someone appeared next to him: it was Sophia, in the trousers, shirt, and vest she had worn as part of James’ prank.

“He talked of this moment often,” she observed wryly, picking stray leaves off a nearby flower. In the distance, the amorous couple continued their desperate coupling. “Among certain friends.”

_ Can’t believe I’ve witnessed it, _ Francis thought with a shudder.  _ Sends me fucking loony. _

Sophia just quirked him a smile. “When you are older, you shall be glad of it. This will prepare you for the truth of the world.”

_ What do you mean _ ? Francis wanted to ask, yet no sooner had he brought two hands to his face than the woodlands disappeared, only to be eaten through by a snowblind of ice.

Here, Sophia sat on the floor of an igloo, in front of Silna herself. Although Silna wore her summer parka, Sophia was dressed only in a long Yupik-style coat, and held a stenographer’s notebook and pencil in hand. Her manner stayed visibly agitated as she rifled through hundreds of scrawled pages: first mumbling under her breath, then carding bare fingers through her blonde hair.

_ Atali! Tukihiŋŋittuŋa. _

Silna did not reply aloud, simply formed the symbols in string.  _ One of a pair.  _ Her brow arched into a questioning expression, as if prompting Sophia for an answer. 

_ You do not even play old maid.  _ Sophia seemed furious that she could not decipher the other woman’s meaning.  _ I shall get it in a moment. Do not tease me. _

Shrugging, Silna went back to her symbols, signing so many phrases to him in quick succession that Francis genuinely could not decipher them all. Instead, he turned back to Sophia, boggled by her sudden appearance in this forsaken place.

_ Inuktuuruŋnaqpit?  _ he demanded.

_ Ii,  _ Sophia mumbled, and averted her gaze to Silna’s.  _ Ilaa'nik. _

Silna seemed untroubled by this incredible revelation. 

_ Kanŋugiřat,  _ said the strings.

_ He does not!   _ Sophia tossed her head in a willful manner.  _ And it is cruel to say aloud, at any rate. _

_ Qanuritpak? _

_ They do not want me.  _ Sophia waved away the next signed question.  _ Oh, damn it. I cannot do this on my own. It is too difficult! _

_ You are learning,  _ Silna told her, and moved to kneel in front of Sophia. Impassive, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sophia’s ear. Francis was struck by the gentleness of this gesture, and how Sophia’s face tilted immediately into Silna’s worn hand, as if she had craved such a small amount of affection for many years, and had not known how to voice it aloud. 

_ Your Harry would not say so,  _ Sophia closed her eyes.  _ He is constantly annoyed with me. I ask too much. I intrude on his time. _

_ Kiuřuq,  _ Silna told her, and gently chucked her under the chin.  _ Apirigguuk. _

As one, both ladies turned to stare at Francis – no,  _ through  _ Francis – behind him at something or perhaps someone he could not yet discern.

_ Akunialuk aullaqsimalaaqqit?  _ Silna signed now.

Francis could not hear a reply, but Sophia’s entire bearing was altered, and transformed to one of acute distress. She leapt to her feet at once.

_ Please do not leave. You do not know how much we – oh, I implore you, dear doctor!  _  Hot tears dropped down her cheeks; she pursed her mouth in obvious fury. Francis longed to comfort her. She always did despise crying.  _ You have come so far already. Why not remain a little longer? Why abandon our effort? _

A response he could not discern.

Sophia’s tears only increased.  _ But I – I cannot do it alone. _

_ Aullaqtuq _ . Silna now held the third person’s gaze.  _ Takujumaarivuguk.  _

This time, she did not use strings nor telepathy, but spoke aloud, in quiet, halting English. Francis had near forgot the sound of her voice. It stirred him to his soul.

“I am – missing you,” she said, and smiled.

Seconds later, Francis snapped awake amid a tangle of bedclothes. His pillows had been shoved into the floor and he was lying at the foot of the bed. Sitting up with a groan, he struggled to orient himself and determine his next course of action. 

That was no mere dream.

As quickly as if summoned aloud, James appeared in the doorway, wearing only his nightshirt and still rumpled from sleep, with visible pillow creases on his cheek.

“Did you – perchance – ”

“Yes,” answered Francis, and beckoned him inside. “We must find Sophia at once.”

  
  


##

 

They readied and dressed in haste and practically stumbled down the stairs. By the time they had caught a cab to the Admiralty – fie that damned place and all the wretched shriveled fuckers in it! – and made the short walk to Lady Jane Franklin’s doorstep, Francis was winded, his bad leg pained him, and the heat had him annoyed.

_ Tuhiattuŋa,  _ he groused as he met James’ concerned gaze.

_ Atii.  _ James thought for a moment, then knocked on the door.  _ Let me lead. _

When Spencer answered, Francis for one horrible moment forgot why they had come, and instead was reminded of the man’s chilly disapproval every time he’d called on Sophia previously. Thankfully, James seemed ready with an appropriate purpose for this visit.

“Ah, good morning, Spencer.”

“Sir James Fitzjames.” Spencer seemed almost happy to see the man, or as happy as a sanguine bulldog-jowled butler could appear in his livery, at any rate. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly when he beheld Francis. “Captain Crozier.”

James produced a slim paperback from one pocket. With dismay, Francis noted it was one of his books, swiped from its place on the shelf. “I am come to return the novel I borrowed from Miss Cracroft.”

“Quite. This way, sirs. I shall determine if Miss Cracroft is available.”

“Pray,” said James with an easy smile as they stepped into the foyer, producing a small pencil from one pocket, “if she is not, it is no trouble. Though I should care for a slip of paper to inform her I have returned her volume as requested.”

“Of course, Sir James.” Spencer bowed to them both before departing, and returned a few moments later with a piece of cream-colored stationery, which he then handed off to James. “Miss Cracroft is not receiving company at the moment, but you may place your message on the tray when it is finished.” 

It was not until Fitzjames had seen the old man walk through to the sitting room then he urged Francis to turn right, up the grand staircase, and began to climb to the second floor.

“What the buggering blazes are you doing?” Francis hissed once they reached the higher landing, leaning on the oak banister for support. “Are you mad?”

“No. Now come along. She is here somewhere.”

Cautiously, they peered into the upstairs parlor, a couple of guest bedrooms, and what appeared to be a forgotten broom closet before Francis finally took the lead, and marched them back down the long hallway toward the stairs.

“She’s not going to – to run weeping through the house like a madwoman. Sophia would keep quiet. Stay in a familiar place.”

“But she’s not in her bedroom,” James complained. “Too many books.”

_ How do you know what her bloody bedroom looks like?  _ Francis nearly snapped, but in an instant, he had finally realised where she might be hiding.

“This way,” he said.

He had only been to this part of the house once, but in this moment, it was as if his feet were steering him with a fast-moving polynya. Left, then right, and then the second door.

When Francis opened this door, he was greeted by the musty smell of old leather-bound books, gunpowder, and Sir John’s signature pomade. It was outfitted as a small writing room, and had touches of the masculine in nearly every corner: apart from the lengthwise wall of bookshelves, hunting prizes were mounted on each opposite wall. Three elaborate paintings of Sir John’s former ships lined another, while intricate mahogany-and-painted carvings of mallards and dogs and monkeys littered every flat shelf and surface besides.

The man’s desk had remained untouched nearly to the letter, perhaps since his departure five years prior. Francis took a moment to study this pristine tableaux before he heard a distinct sniff issue from beneath the desk’s surface, and noticed that Sir John’s cherry-red rolling chair had been moved perhaps ten centimeters to the left.

Walking around the desk, he knelt down with a grunt, and poked at the voluminous skirts that puffed up and out from the deep footwell. In this position, she did not resemble a lady so much as a fondant-covered cake with two legs.

James walked round to the other side, carefully moved Sir John’s chair, and patted one of Sophia’s stockinged legs as he sat down. “Hello, old chap.”

A small, pathetic whimper. 

Francis and James locked eyes, uncertain as to how to proceed.

“You spent time here with your uncle, yes?” Francis offered, for the benefit of the room. Perhaps it would be better to let her lead the conversation.

“I’m sure I’ve told you.” Sophia huffed out a wet sigh. “Uncle thought I should better discern what decisions were right or wrong in financial situations. Only no-one wanted to sit in with a girl. So I hid under the desk, and listened as he talked.”

“Did it work?” 

“Sometimes. Afterward, I would have to pinpoint the correct course of action, or refute the decision he had made previous.” A sniff. “Other times he quite forgot I was here.”

“That sounds….” even James, who couldn’t close his fucking gob at the best of times, now seemed completely lost for words “....rather fraught.”

“It was one of the few occasions I felt closest to him.” Sophia sounded as if she were weeping anew. “When he sat in his chair, just out of sight, there, and conducted business with the other sailors – I could hear it in his voice, you know. How happy he was to reminisce on his adventures, even the ill-fated ones. The voyages. The Arctic. He never talked about us in that manner.” Another pained noise. “And I had to remain in ignorance.”

“Ross says you and your aunt could nearly list off every port and supplier in Baffin Bay. If ‘tis truly ignorance, I know of a few midshipmen who might not – ”

“This is no joke, Francis!” Without warning, Sophia scuttled forward so they could now see her face in earnest; she was apple-red, still weeping, and clearly furious. “My aunt’s deluded crusade is not my own.  _ For once, I have had something only for myself. _ Without the wretched shadow of my name, or my dowry, or my connections, and now – ” she put her hands over her face – “all of it is lost.”

“What is?”  Francis glanced at James, then beneath the desk. A large cache of paper and leather-bound notebooks had caught his eye, along with a thankfully-still-unlit candle and a box of matches. “God in heaven, Sophia, there’s enough tinder back there to burn the damned house down!”

“I wasn’t going to burn them,” Sophia retorted with a sniff. “I meant to read them, obviously. Well. I did read them. And I wrote some of them.”

“Well, give the blasted things here, then.” Francis growled out a frustrated noise. “Otherwise James and I shall remain lost.”

Quickly, she handed over a single letter from the packet. They read this first:

 

> _ My dear Miss Cracroft, I writ to you in haste so pray forgiv my penmanship and spelling. Unfortunately Doctor sir’s not well so he cannot keep yr next appointment. (He adds: I Regret that I cannot write to you unassisted - it is the Rheumatizm), oh miss Cracroft his poor joints ache something awful, make no mistake, much worse than when we saw you last 17th ult. (He sez I am wrong; begging his and yr pardon, I en’t no doctor but stiff is stiff & the slightest movements pain him something terrible.) Enclosed is all his papers an writings on the Eski (?) language; he sez the surgeon’s College don’t need ‘em and the Navy en’t real keen on ‘em neither – this after all he’s done on their behalf! If any-one could use ‘em, says he, it’s that Miss Cracroft. Very kindly he speaks of you, dear Lady – how youre looking after M–– F and C – sez he wishes he could tell them two captains what a true and Beloved Friend they have in you as well as himself. he misses them Brave Officers so, tis true. Such trials they weathered together!  _ A blot of ink.  _ Oh miss Cracroft i writ the first part of this yesterday and i am afeared today my news is bleak indeed – doctor Goodsir dyed early this morning. Found him fully dressed & slumped over in bed with a bottle of laudanum - this had been carefully Measured for a last draught – no more than an Ounce – so he might End his own Suffering! G-d rest his poor Troubled Soul.  _ Several water spots blurred out the next few words.  _ dear Lady i ask that you now pleas take this delivery upon his express last wishes, for I am most certain assured his work stays safe with you.  _ _ Whether we two shall meet again in Life I do not know but Ever I remain faithfully, Mrs. Wm A. Crawford _

 

When he finished reading the letter, James’ face was drained of all color. “You met Doctor Goodsir?”

“James,” said Francis, very quiet.

“Yes.” Sophia dashed a sparkle of tears from her eyes. “He – I wanted to learn Inuktitut, and I thought – you would not want to teach me, as – the idea might be upsetting.”

“What?”

“You speak it during your episodes. And I know Francis understands you perfectly, but – but I do not, and I feel if we are true friends then I should – how could I possibly be anything but a prize dunce if I cannot help him care for you in times of need?”

“Sophia, I have never asked you to do such a thing,” James said hoarsely.

“Of course not. And you would not. I had unselfish motives.” She let out a watery little laugh. “As well as selfish ones. You and Francis are so very dear to each other, and I thought – I thought – perhaps you might understand that I should – should like to be a little dear to you in turn.”

“God’s blood, Sophia. Do you honestly believe that we do not – that you’d have to – make yourself  _ useful  _ in order to continue in our company? Christ above, you damn fool woman, of course we bloody well  _ like  _ you.”

“Well, I have made that difficult to do in past, Francis, even if neither of you shall now admit to it.” She spoke very stiffly. “For once, I simply wanted someone to – to unreservedly enjoy speaking with me. About topics other than my uncle, or the Season, or – other such ridiculous rumours. Someone who could listen to my most pressing concerns and questions, without – condemning me for them.”

Francis had no goddamn idea what this could mean, and could do naught but gawp at her. But James simply nodded, once, setting his jaw as if he had intuited the reason.

“Doctor Goodsir was very skilled at that.”

“He is. He was.” She lay down right on the ground, so that her head was pillowed against the side of James’ leg. With her free arm, she grasped for Francis, tugging at his trousers and then his wrist until he moved forward on hands and knees, and had placed one hand against her upper back. “I so liked him.”

“As did I,” James offered softly, and said no more.

They sat this way for perhaps ten minutes, wordlessly mourning, before Sophia finally sat up. James helped her to her feet, then did the same for Francis, who had to put a hand on the desk for support.

“Suppose we should take our leave.” James’s posture was too strict for the usual gallows humor to fully belie his nerves. “Before your man Spencer catches us, at any rate.”

To her credit, Sophia did not laugh, simply put a hand on both their arms in silent thanks. Within a few minutes, the two men managed to sneak past the front door and beyond, only being spotted by two ladies’ maids in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Atali! Tukihiŋŋittuŋa. = I am envious! I do not understand.  
> Inuktuuruŋnaqpit? = Do you speak Inuktitut?  
> Ilaa'nik. = Sometimes.  
> Kanŋugiřat. = He makes you feel shy.  
> Qanuritpak? = How are the two of them?  
> Kiuřuq. Apirigguuk. = He answers. Ask him.  
> Akunialuk aullaqsimalaaqqit? = Will you be gone a long time?  
> Aullaqtuq. Takujumaarivuguk. = He departs. See you later (sometime in the future.)  
> Tuhiattuŋa = I am limping.  
> Atii = Okay, then/All right, then.


	7. Chapter 7

On the fourth of January, 1852, Mr. Harry D.S. Goodsir was laid to rest by a small party in London’s East Greenwich Pleasaunce - the former being attached to Greenwich Hospital, where he had apparently taken up lodgings with other retired sailors shortly after returning to London. His body was wrapped in sailcloth and given full honours of a burial at sea, though they were far inland. The attending party for this burial was small – just five persons in total: James, Francis, Sophia, the imitable Mrs. Crawford, and a Mr. James Moncrieff Arnott, President of the R.C.S.E.

As four stout boys lowered the coffin into the grave, and began the work of shoveling dirt across the face of the pine box, a sudden exclamation made their group turn.

“Sir James Fitzjames! And – good Christ, Francis Crozier! Is that really you, by God?”

Alarmed, Fitzjames turned away from the party only to spot Sir James Ross rushing toward them. And then he did not know which way to retreat first.

“Bugger,” Francis muttered, just as the man himself reached them.

“My goodness. Look at you.” Ross embraced Francis like a brother, and shook everyone else’s hands with gusto – even Mrs. Crawford’s, although both parties looked rather perplexed after this event had occurred. “Suppose I ought to have diverted my letters, eh? Are you taken up in residence here, then, Francis?”

“No,” came the gruff answer.

Fitzjames attempted to deflect the subject, inclining his gaze toward the broken ground. “Ross, it may be better for us to speak in private. We were just – ”

“Oh.” Ross seemed, finally, to notice that they were standing at a gravesite and not just taking the air in the middle of an open field. “Oh! Terribly sorry. Well, yes, of course. Gentlemen. Ladies.” He peered at Sophia, possibly recognizing her although he did not yet utter her name. “We shall reconvene in the Painted Hall at your convenience.”

Nothing about this situation could possibly be convenient, James reflected sourly as they trudged back toward the main wing of the building. They waved off Mr. Arnott after some talk of a memorial plaque, while Sophia bid Mrs. Crawford a warm goodbye. And then it was time to face the lion’s den at last.

“Rather hang myself than speak to James fucking Ross for a gob-fucking minute,” Francis growled once the three of them were finally alone.

Sophia elbowed him under pretense of adjusting her palazzo jacket. “Someone will hear you! And he was once your closest friend – ”

“Self-styled.”

“Regardless! Be  _ polite _ .”

Arriving at the Painted Hall at last, they saw Ross standing at an empty table by the left hand bank of windows. Toward the back of the hall, a few sailors were gathered in some activity or event; it was not immediately clear for what they had convened.

Ross lit up again when he saw them. “I say, friends, please forgive my lapse before. Must admit I was quite shocked to see you all – and dear Miss Cracroft among you! How wonderful to see you out and about.”

His teeth-clenching cheer was enough to give James a headache.

“Come off it, Ross.” Although Francis managed to make this sound less hideous than usual, he still seemed rather exasperated. “You never drop-in unless you want something.”

“Francis Crozier.” Ross wagged his finger in a knowing way, like a proud father disciplining a roguish yet favourite son. “By God, still nothing gets past you! Well, I suppose if you shall not deign to read any of my letters than I should have to make my offers in person.”

“Letters?” Sophia asked.

“Oh, do not allow me to bore you with such inane contents, madam. Not much good to anyone save three old sea-dogs.” He threw Fitzjames and Francis a conspiratorial grin. “Here. We three shall finally have a sit-down, and then you may have time to mull over your answers prior to the party.”

“Party?” 

Francis’s eyes widened in horror. Through sheer force of will was James able to blunt his own abject revulsion at such an idea.

“By God, man, you truly have not kept up with the comings and goings of our set since your return! What on earth  _ have  _ you been doing?”

“Well, small wonder that they – ”

Sophia’s attempted observation was quite cut off by Ross; whether he did this purposefully or incidentally was not entirely clear.

“My dear Miss Cracroft, forgive me. I hope you shall not mind too much if I steal these two officers from your lovely company for the time being.”

“Oh.” Sophia blinked in surprise. The smile she directed at Ross now was sent through tightly-clenched teeth. Fitzjames knew how much she despised being shut out of a group, though her slight curtsy betrayed no such hint of fury. “Of course, Sir James. Gentlemen.”

“We shall find you again at quarter-past,” Francis interjected.

Consulting his watch, James noticed it was yet one o’clock.

“Right. Well.” Ross clapped both hands together, and gestured toward the tables. “Men, now that we are alone at last, I have a most exciting proposition for you.”

 

_ one week later _

 

Even from her place on the chaise lounge in the sitting room, Sophia could still hear Francis railing against the idea at near to full volume as the gentlemen dressed for dinner. And they were still on the second floor! 

“Because he’s  _ off his fucking head! _ And I’ll not parade around that shite-fucking toff’s front parlor whilst he shows us off like a pair of booby prizes – ”

“Do you honestly think I don’t know why it upsets you?”

“ – and by God, I swear on the fucking Book of Leviathan that if so much as  _ one _ thrice-damned person asks us about the thrice-damned Arctic – ”

“Ross will steer the conversation appropriately, Francis.”

“Then damn him, and damn the blasted fucking conversation! Christ above, I’d rather listen to your Woosung River tale  _ a hundred thousand times over _ than hear such craven, mealy-mouthed apologies! Hang the  _ entire _ god-damned Admiralty if they think I’ll ever – ”

Something Sophia could not hear. Silence fell. A drawer slammed closed. No more was said until the gentlemen, both in frock coat dress without epaulettes, descended the stairs at last: James, quietly but with reluctance, as if he were already quite worn out, and Francis with such speed it seemed as if the Devil himself were on his heels.

“Let’s get this bloody great party over with,” he muttered to Sophia, as Hanson opened the door for all three of them to depart.

  
  
  
##  
  
  
  


By the time the party got underway in earnest, it had already become a hellish nightmare of an evening for Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier. Liquor flowed in droves, and although Francis would not and could not drink a drop, he was forced to carry around a glass of sober-water at all times, lest the rest of the sneering pack try to ply him with whiskey or gin. Desperately he wished for some way to dull his faculties, if nothing else than to save him from the empty echo of rage at being stuck here, in Sir James Ross’s front room, while half of London society and the Admiralty pretended to be awfully glad to see them. While they waited to throw them back into a boat so they could freeze to death in the dark.

James, meanwhile, was attempting to summon up all his old carefree charm as Ross led a variety of people over to their little corner. And when the gob-fucking hell hounds inevitably asked about  _ the expedition _ , in hushed, eager tones, he would invariably turn the conversation back to Francis’ favourite subject.  _ Do you know, what most ailed me on the return journey was the bullet I took from a Chinaman on the Woosung River in the Opium Wars. Have you heard that most excellent tale? It is one of Crozier’s favorites. No, no, I must regale them with it, Francis. The tale the lovely lady requests is nowhere near as exciting if she does not yet understand how I came to be injured by said musket-ball in the first place. _

Francis would not admit that he was already worried about James. Though the man was keeping up appearances with the best of them, tonight, there was something slightly forced about James’ cheerful banter. A minute tremor in his hands when he was asked to greet yet another officer’s wife or accept condolences on the loss of his prized flagship and its crew. He’d actually startled when he saw Lady Jane Franklin enter the room, just ahead of her rapscallion charlatan of a patroned writer. Not to mention the way Ross kept hovering around them like a god-damned vulture waiting on its prey, waiting for them even to  _ hint _ that they’d consider returning to that damnable place.

Jesus bleeding Christ, all Francis could think about was Ross’s dirty great mug in the damned Painted Hall, smiling as broadly as if he were offering them the chance of a lifetime.

_ “Go back. To – to – ” _

_ “Baffin Bay, yes.” Ross heaved a sigh, glanced out the window. “Really, Francis, no need to glare. I realise you may yet want added time away, all things considered, but there’s only so much a man can take of half-pay and shore leave, hm?” _

_ Next to Francis, James sat strict and silent. _

_ “Course, I understand your concerns, given earlier misfortunes, but let us not mince words, men – our talents are wasted in places such as these. We were never meant for civilian life.” Glancing at a fellow who hobbled along on one crutch, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if this poor man was a creature beyond pity. “Personally, I’ve never felt worse after being free of command too long. A man needs that rigor in order to survive. Needs that camaraderie – the thrill of new discoveries.” _

“ _ Why now?” James asked, voice hard. _

_ Francis looked over and saw the man had clenched one fist beneath the table. He resisted the urge to cover this fist with his hand, to soothe James’s nerves before they got him into trouble. How god-damned ironic. _

“ _ Well – forgive me, Sir James, if I overreach – but aren’t you ready to live your life again, old boy?” _

_ “Notice you don’t much care about me living my life,” Francis growled before James could answer. The remark was not truly in jest. Hang this fucking fool for a sixpence. “Do you not think I’ve anything better to do than freeze-in at Peel Sound?” _

_ Ross laughed; it was a soft, slightly embarrassed sound. “Ah, Francis. I have missed your little jokes. You and Master Blanky could always find the humour in any situation.” _

_ “And yet Tom Blanky’s bleaching in the wind tied to a line of fucking  _ forks. _ ”  _

_ Groaning, Fitzjames put a hand over his eyes, hunching forward as if he’d just been embarrassed in the middle of an officer’s dinner. But Francis noticed some of the tension drain from his previously-too-stiff frame, and was glad of it. _

_ Ross simply frowned, bewildered. “Sorry, old boy, did – did you say – forks?” _

_ James stood up, offering Ross an apologetic smile. “With that, I really think we must be going. Can’t keep S – ah, Miss Cracroft waiting much longer.” _

_ With this, he bowed to Ross, and departed. _

_ Ross offered a hand to Francis, who took it, although he’d have much rather socked the bastard in his oily little mouth. _

_ “I’ll expect your answer by the party next week. Do try and convince your fellow captain to come along. He – they will not make him a better offer, should he refuse them now.”  _ A telling pause.  _ “Nor you. Take care, Francis.” _

Conspiratorial, he leaned over to James, attempting to make him smile. “You know, I’ve half a mind to scare the pants off these stuffed-up shits. Tell them about Tuunbaq.”

James’s mouth twitched in a pained expression. “Don’t.”

Christ above, even this could not make him laugh?

“James.”

_ Be careful,  _ was the first warning to spring to mind, although Francis could not understand why his first instinct was to protect James from nary so much as a lady’s outstretched fan. Wasn’t as if they were out on the ice again.

“Captain Crozier. Captain Fitzjames.”

Francis turned, saw Lady Jane Franklin standing before them, dressed in royal purple with a most severe set to her mouth. Behind her stood the writer, an odd, peevish-looking sort of fellow even in his dinner jacket with a drink in one hand. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Perhaps his instincts hadn’t got so rusty after all.

“Lady Jane,” he sputtered, in an attempt to save Fitzjames from replying. “I – did not expect you would come.”

“Of course I should attend,” answered she, chillingly curt. “My beloved niece is here. We are among friends. Naturally, it is the perfect opportunity for Mr. Snow and I to recruit funds for our little book.”

“Ah.” Francis did not know what to say. “Well.”

The lady was at no such loss, however, and re-arranged her reticule in one hand before speaking again.

“You know, I always expected you should disappoint me in one way or another.”

For half a second, Francis felt as if he were standing in front of Sir John again, willing himself into impassivity as his heart dropped into his stomach. Yet when Lady Jane turned to Fitzjames, suddenly Francis was seized by an new urge: to run. To physically pull his comrade away from this hell-forsaken place so that he would not have to hear her next words. James was not like him. Any words flung in anger would wound him to the core.

Lady Franklin turned to James.

“I did not, however, expect  _ you _ to be so feeble-minded.”

James startled as noticeably as if she had slapped him across the face with her glove. “Madam – ”

“No. My husband now fends for himself in a savage land,” she hissed, making no effort to lower her voice. “Thanks in no small part to your incomprehensible vanity, foolish  _ recklessness _ , and your utter  _ failure  _ in your duties.”

“Stop this at once, Aunt Franklin.” Suddenly Sophia was there, pulling at Lady Jane’s hand. “This cannot help your cause.”

“No, it shall not,” retorted Lady Jane, removing Sophia’s hand from her own, “yet it must needs be said, and you will mind yourself in these matters, dear niece.”

“I certainly shall not!” Sophia straightened to her full height; even in her aquamarine-blue dress, she appeared at this moment like an Admiral commanding the vessel. “Distempered though we all are, you are  _ not  _ to speak to these gentlemen in such a manner.”

“My goodness,” said the writer. He appeared to be jotting the conversation down.

In vain, Francis attempted to redirect the discussion. Hold your temper, man. Hold your bloody fucking temper. “S – Miss Cracroft, you should feel no obligation to defend us.”

“Captain, you may not be my chosen fiancé, but it is my duty as a friend to ensure – ”

“False. Lady Franklin is correct about my own character – ”

“ – I will not allow you to be so abused among the company of your fellow – ”

“Ah, Lady Jane!” Ross’s booming voice, far across the room; he either had not noticed this developing row or was attempting to censure it from afar. “Excellent! I had so hoped you would arrive in time to entertain our little group.”

_ Entertain? _

“Francis.”

“We are in the midst of selecting roles for a little panto after the dinner hour. Please, dear friends, come and join us!”

For a moment, Francis could do nothing but watch in silent horror as Ross waved at Lady Franklin and her writer companion, and succeeded in diverting their attention. A white object inlaid with gold was clutched in one of his hands - a Venetian mask. A velvet jet-black ribbon trailed from both its porcelain cheeks, while the  _ commedia’s  _ hinged jaw hung open, giving its red-painted lips and sharp-browed yet blank eyes a harrowing look.

“Francis, I can’t breathe.”

Barely more than a whisper. Immediately, Francis turned. 

Next to him, James had gone pale as a sailcloth. His rough, shallow breathing belonged more to a consumption patient than a young Captain in the prime of his life, and he was shuddering in his frock coat, swaying dangerously on his feet.

“I c – I ca – ”

He had to get him out of here.

“With me, James.” 

Francis had not truly barked out a typhoon command since his last day as acting Captain of Terror – mere seconds before Cornelius Hickey’s bullet had nearly struck him dead, right there in the snow – but in this moment, he was commanding again. Without pause, he grabbed a shellshocked Fitzjames by the sleeve, and dragged him bodily toward the door, pushing through a bewildered party crowd. 

“ _ MOVE! _ ”

The persons nearest their momentum, many having never been commanded as such in their entire lives, scattered like frightened rats to let them pass. 

Even in the relative safety of the corridor, James was barely able to walk, stumbling behind Francis as weakly as he had at his worst scurvy-ridden.

Others had begun to rush toward them.

_ “Sir James is – !” _

_ “What shall we do?” _

_ “Call for the doctor!” _

But none of them mattered. The only other voice he could hear was Sophia’s.

“Francis!” She was rushing for the door mere meters ahead of him, urging the young footman to open it though she was not even dressed in her coat. “We will take you.”

Outside, the smog had descended, nearly obscuring the arriving cab from view. Francis had never been so glad to see Clark emerge from the damned thing in all his life.

“Quickly. We must go.”

Once inside, sheltered in the relative safety of the carriage, Francis had hoped Fitzjames’ episode might lessen. Not many horses in the Arctic, at any rate. But it did not; the man now clawed fruitlessly at his collar and buttons as if his very uniform stifled his breath.

“Off. Get it off. Get it – ”

“Here.” Sophia’s fingers, small and deft, aided Francis’s clumsy hands. Together, they were able to unbutton James’ frock coat, get the collar and tie loosened. “Here, James.”

“Francis, the  _ noise _ !” James cried out in fear, pressing both hands against his ears and hunching forward in his seat. “I hear the hissing every night when I dream; it will not end. Our white room burns –  _ our men with it _ !”

“God almighty,” Sophia whispered, and drew back.

“They smell like a Christmas roast. And I’m so  _ hungry _ ,” James began to weep, stifling the sound with one hand. “Oh, Francis!”

In vain, Francis took the other man into his arms. The carriage jolted over a pothole in the road, but he paid it no mind, simply locked eyes with a blanched, clearly terrified, Sophia, willing her to keep calm. “Shhh. Carnivale is behind us, James.”

James was babbling, still delirious in his fragile state. “And it was my – my – I told the m-men – I wanted it t-to – ”

“You thought it would nourish them.” Francis dared not look at Sophia, although he spoke for her benefit, as well. “For the long walk, as on my last voyage. We are both to blame.”

“Don’t leave me, F-francis.” James’s hands tightened on the sleeves of Francis’ frock coat. He was shaking so violently his teeth chattered. “I don’t want to die alone.”

“You are  _ not _ dying,” Sophia proclaimed loudly, smoothing one hand through James’ hair. He startled, and glanced right, as if he’d quite forgotten she were there. “We’re taking you home, James.”

“And you aren’t alone, hm?” Francis was not certain if this soothed James, but his breathing had stopped hitching in that awful, frantic way. “We’ll not leave you.”

The carriage jolted to a stop; James startled and shrank back into Francis’ side as the door was opened. Sophia alighted, then held out her hands to them both.

“Quickly.”

James staggered forward on coltish legs, barely supported by Francis from behind as he stumbled out onto the street; thankfully, Sophia and her man Clark were prepared for such an eventuality, and were able to brace him with their combined strength, and using the side of the carriage. By the time Francis emerged, and got an arm under James’ side, getting him up the outer stairs and through the front door, Sophia disengaged and sent her man on his way.

“If Aunt Franklin asks after me, I told you I have gone home with an headache.”

Clark did not look pleased to be part of such fiction, but he did not protest this excuse, simply departed without another word.

As the door latched closed behind him, James began peeling at his sleeves, trying to shake the frock coat with all its weight into the floor.

“Slops,” he muttered. “The steam – ”

“Blasted fucking Carnivale.” Francis scrubbed a hand over his jaw, attempting to bolster his own confidence. Perhaps engaging in his delusions might help for a time. “All right. Get them off, James. We’re going back to Erebus.”

James stopped what he was doing, and lifted his head. Although his eyes were distant, the set of his mouth seemed to indicate he had heard the words. “Warm up.”

“Yes,” said Francis, and gestured wordlessly for Sophia to help him with the garments. “Come on.”

As gently as if she were a doctor tending to a patient, Sophia helped James peel off his coat, vest, and tie, and remove his shoes, before taking him by the hand. He was still unsteady on his feet, but seemed more willing to be led.

“Francis, his coat,” she said, pointing at the pile of cloth on the tile. His other clothes were clutched under her left arm.

James jerked around to stare at Francis, and attempted to leave Sophia’s side; his legs wobbled under him, although he did not stop moving. “Don’t go!”

Cursing, Francis yanked the coat up from the floor, and went to James’ other side. “Together, then.”

Awkwardly, they maneuvered him up the stairs and into Francis’ bedroom. While Francis guided his companion to sit on the bed, Sophia immediately closed the door behind them, and removed her own coat at last.

“James, take your trousers off, please,” she said, and turned to Francis, cool as you please. “I will need assistance with my laces.”

_ “What.” _

Francis was momentarily lost for words.

“Warm up,” James mumbled, fumbling with his braces. His hands shook far too much to get them unclasped. “C - cold.”

Fixing Francis with a baleful glare, Sophia gestured toward James with one palm as if the solution to his condition were beyond obvious. “He needs us to  _ warm him. _ ”

_ Oh.  _

“As you did in the Arctic,” Sophia continued, which had now become painfully clear.

_ Body heat. Nights spent beneath furs in Silna’s igloo. _

He sighed, and motioned her forward. “Right.” 

There was no time for false modesty or awkwardness. Francis loosened Sophia’s laces and stays with too-thick fingers before turning back to James and divesting him of his braces. By the time he’d gotten James’s trousers down around his ankles, and removed his shirt, leaving him shivering in naught but his smallclothes, Sophia had peeled off everything from her petticoats and corset to her chemise and drawers, and was putting on one of Francis’ nightshirts, still discarded on the floor from the previous night.

Grumbling to himself, Francis removed the rest of his clothes as quickly as possible, although he could not help lamenting the fact that Sophia was now going to see him naked, again, at a most inopportune moment. He had not been able to prepare for such an eventuality – least, not to the degree he liked – and everything from his flabby belly and pale skin to his, well, mostly soft prick was on full display. He quickly pulled on a clean nightshirt.

_ James needs you,  _ he reminded himself.  _ Like before. _

Nearly as one, the two of them climbed into bed, guiding James to lay back against the pillows and drawing the sheet over everyone. 

Sophia had been right; James was still shivering so violently it was as if he was frostbitten, although a sheen of sweat had formed on his brow and belly and lower back. Likely from the shock. It happened after the worst episodes.

“Lie back, James.” Francis stroked a hand up and down James’ left side, his arm, his chest, before urging him to turn, pressing his front to James’ back and encircling him in both arms. Sophia, likewise, moved closer, and mirrored these movements. Although she made no comment about propriety, Francis was certain the subject was on her mind. Even at their most passionate, when she had been able to sneak into his room at night to make love, they had never been quite this heedless.

“Well, Fitzjames, s’pose you’ll have something new to brag about at the club.” Francis soothed a hand up and down James’ chest; the other man shuddered in clear, if unspoken gratitude. His shivering was already lessened. “You’ve now got both your commander and your fellow knight into bed.”

“Francis Crozier, you are utterly  _ incorrigible, _ ” Sophia scolded, although she was smiling; Francis could glimpse the upturned curve of her mouth, although it was partially hidden by James’s hair. “Don’t let’s listen to him, James.”

“He’s – always like this,” James grunted, then let out an unsteady breath. “You’ll see.”

Sophia made a surprised noise, lifting one hand to his face. “Oh. Oh, no, my dear.”

_ What’s happening _ , Francis began to ask, and that was when he felt the telltale hitch of breath against his chest; the tightening of James’ shoulders. He was weeping again.

“Don’t go,” he choked out.

“We’re going nowhere tonight,” Sophia soothed.

“No! ‘Tisn’t – ” a wet snort “ – S’phia, if you marry him, I’ll not bear it.”

“If she –  _ what? _ ”

Fitzjames wept openly and without shame. “He’s ev’rything to me – and I  – I cannot – ”

Stunned by this admission, Francis had to fight to keep his usual temper from exploding, and thus spoke his next words in a very calm, even tone. Judging by the wordless glare Sophia flung at him afterwards, it was nowhere near calm enough. 

“What the blazes do you mean,  _ if she marries me _ ?”

“F – francis.” A pause. “You’ve loved’er for years. You love her still. And now she’s here, an’ you won’t need me t’ tide you over.”

_ “Tide me over?” _

Jesus bloody Christ.

“’m a fraud, here by the grace of God and J – John Barrow.” A sniff. “Found his eldest son frisking in a Shanghai brothel.”

“With whores?” Sophia sounded marvelous calm. “I have heard gossip.”

“Worse.” Fitzjames sucked in a ragged breath. “Men of different persuasions.” Another pause. “Barrow never asked me how I knew the place.”

“Forgive me, but I – still do not understand.” Sophia tucked James’s hair behind one ear, and was careful not to glance at Francis. “All – personal versatility aside – why does it so follow that Francis should, well, cruelly use you, in order to spite me?”

“It is how we took up together. Nothing else but thoughts of you spurred him on. Even alone in the Arctic, you were first on his mind, on his lips, on his tongue. And I – I’m merely convenient. A companion. No more.”

His breath hitched once, twice, again, and he began to weep a second time.

Blushing hotly with a mixture of anger, horror, and embarrassment, Francis could not find the proper words right away.  _ This was what James truly believed? That they shared an arrangement of – bloody fucking convenience – and nothing more?! All these years?! _

Thus, it was fortunate Sophia spoke up once again.

“James. Francis has not proposed to me anew, and I – do not know if he ever shall.” She removed her hand from James’ face to press against Francis’s bicep, very briefly. “But if – if he, at some future date, was so inclined to renew those sentiments, I would not separate you from him. Do you take my meaning, darling?”

“No.” James had begun to sob in earnest. “No.”

“Oh, my sweet sir. Let us speak freely at last. I see the love in your eyes when you behold him. I have witnessed the passionate bond you share together. Why should I ever seek to tear that asunder?”

James was unable to speak – and by God, Francis Crozier himself was struck mute.

_ What did she mean? What had she glimpsed? _

“James. My lovely, tender friend. I should never ask you to give up your beloved captain. And I shall never take him from you. Even – even if he requests it.”

“By Christ,” Francis finally growled, now furious at having his own mind made up for him, “have I no say in any of this? James, you great fucking lunatic, you sledged me clear across King William Island for  _ five hundred miles, all on your own _ . You saw me through the very worst days of my life. Sooner ask Hickey to shoot me in the back again than give you up, you monstrous imbecile.” He released a breath, now calmer, and tried to sum up the vast wildness of such feeling into words. “God knows I have never needed nor loved another man on this earth as I have you!”

“Francis.” James was trembling again. “You – you do love me?”

“Yes, sweet man. He does.” Sophia was now rubbing small circles into James’s shoulders, and by extension, Francis’s. Her fingers sent a prickle of bliss down his back. “As you do him. As do we all.”

“I do. Good Christ, Francis, I do.”

Tears had brimmed in Francis’s eyes, but he did not dash them away. Instead, he tightened his hold on James, and adjusted one hand against both James’s bony hip and Sophia’s soft curves. He felt suddenly shy when addressing Sophia.

_ And I love you.  _

“And I you, James,” he finally said. “And – and you, Sophia.” His fingers curled gently against Sophia’s bare skin. “Never stopped, really.”

After several minutes, James’s shuddering sobs finally quieted. He was breathing shallowly, if regularly in their dual embrace, and Francis was so drowsy and relaxed he was in danger of nodding off. Lit by a single candle, their canopy bed was as comfortable as even the best hammock.

“‘M going’t sleep,” he finally sighed against James’s neck, and shut his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real James Clark Ross and Francis Crozier were apparently BFFs IRL, but for the purposes of this story I made their relationship a leeeetle bit more fraught.
> 
> Also, James (crying noise).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I forgot to include this - title taken from the [George McCrae jam "You Can Have It All." ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhFEk9-T82I) It's great and so is [the Yo La Tengo version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MsQW7jZJY9s) Jam on, Terrorbytes.

_ In his dreams, a flurry of scenes all writ through in smouldering heat, as oppressive as the climate in Van Diemen’s Land: _

 

_ Francis on his knees in front of James, James’ prick in his mouth and his own in hand, spending onto the floor in blissful abandon _

 

_ A flushed, shy Sophia in some sort of examination room, biting her lip as she explained her purpose for calling.  _ I should like to purchase the device we discussed, before.  _ Inside, she throbbed so keenly she was sure it was noticeable to the world. What a delicious, secretive sensation.  _ He brought him off with his – with his – oh, I have never beheld such things.

 

_ Sophia riding Francis hard and quick, with James at her back, mouthing at her neck and cupping her breasts in both hands _

 

_ James in front of Francis – a figure in blue skirts next to them – both of them bending to his prick, relentlessly teasing, until he howled with release _

 

“Ah!”

James glanced to his left. Next to him, Francis had finally snapped awake, rustling the bedsheets, glancing around at its occupants and then at the closed door before relaxing slightly. He seemed still breathless.

“Christ.”

“Just a dream,” James put a friendly hand on his knee. “Kept thrashing in your sleep.”

In truth, Francis had begun to moan slightly and thrust against James’ bare back sometime between when they had gone to sleep and when the sun rose a second time. They’d lost a full day to the episode, at least. Fortunately or unfortunately, Francis had not reached resolution, thereby leaving James prick-forward and keenly alert since the early hours, as if he’d been drinking coffee on watch.

“I remember that noise,” came a voice to his right, high-pitched and wry, as Sophia rolled over onto her left side. She was flushed pink from sleep, and her squinted expression was charmingly unfocused. From this angle, James could tell precisely why Francis must have adored waking up to this picture. “Poor man needs tending.”

“Hmph.” James could not help grinning. “That he does.”

Francis, still barely awake, if the bursts of sleepy incoherence beaming into James’s mind were any indication of his mental state, did not seem to understand what they meant.

“What’re y’talking about now?”

Sophia just smiled. “We noticed you enjoyed the dreams.”

“Mm.” A pause. “But how – ”

“My dreams,” she repeated, and gave James a significant look. “You kept touching us very slightly, naughty boy. Yet I could not bear to wake either of you.”

“I kept – ” Francis seemed fully alert now. “Do you mean…?”

_ She shares our connection, Francis. Yours and mine.  _ James released a breath, felt Francis shift his hips up at the movement.  _ Did you see what she wanted? What she saw? _

Poor fellow was fully aroused now, and quite unable to respond aloud. Even were it not for their unique connection broadcasting such things between them, James would perhaps have intuited Francis’ next series of thoughts from here to kingdom come, had he the chance to decipher such complex riddles.

_ ….sweet Jesus gob-stopping Christ, if that means what I believe it does, I’ll fuck the pair of you senseless. _

“I would not object to that, Francis.” Wearing naught but a nightshirt, Sophia resembled a fresh-faced debut or a ship’s boy as opposed to a lady of high society. “If you are in earnest.”

On his other side, Francis made a strangled noise.

_ Did she – surely she could not hear what I just – what did this madwoman just say? _

“Francis,” repeated Sophia, meeting James’s eyes dead-on, and placing Francis’s hand under the hem of her rucked-up nightshirt. “I have  _ burned _ for this day.”

Gasping, Francis did not seem to know how best to respond, and so it was James who leaned forward and covered Sophia’s mouth with his, gentle at first, tentative, and then more assured, deepening the kiss until her breath caught in the back of her throat, and her mouth opened invitingly under his.

Behind him, Francis had already taken his prick in hand. “Oh, Christ, James. Oh, good Christ. You – you two look – ”

“Gorgeous.” James bent his head to Sophia’s jaw, nibbled at her earlobe and down to the soft place where her shoulder and neck met. Here, he laved at this exquisite divot with his tongue; she made a soft, shocked noise.

“Ah!”

“Sir Cracroft.” James felt dizzy. Francis’s hands were all over his back and rump and Sophia’s fingernails traced wicked patterns up and down his chest. “That feels – mm.”

“Again,” Francis commanded in a rasp - and whatever Sophia had done, she repeated; a shiver rushed through James’s entire frame.

“Let me pet you, sweet man.” Bringing the palm of her hand up to her mouth, Sophia  _ licked a thick stripe up to her fingers _ , then moved closer, and took James’s cock in a firm, knowing grip. His eyes fell closed. “Goodness! You really are ready.”

“Fuck!” Behind him, Francis trembled like an overcome schoolgirl, and quickened his strokes. “Good fucking Christ above, Sophia. You – you – ”

“Mm hm,” she moaned, and did likewise to James. James’s hips snapped up. “Oh, you look so good like this, James, darling. The pair of you together.”

“Yes,” James groaned. “Like that.”

“Francis, you should see how beautifully he squirms when you suckle him.”

Francis’s breath stuttered in his throat, and his hand worked fast and clumsy on his own prick. James could feel hot, desperate fingers smacking against the small of his back.

“You were lovely that day,” Sophia continued, breathlessly, and now an image was dawning in James’ mind – the very image of him, being pleasured by a wanton Francis. “Mouth open, eyes closed, pink all the way down to your – can you  _ imagine  _ if I had done that to you, Francis, when first we made love at – ”

“Jesus  _ God _ ,” Francis actually  _ whimpered _ , and without warning, he stiffened, groaned, and a series of hot, erratic stripes painted James’s back. “Sophia!”

James was too overcome to react; all he could do was reach between Sophia’s legs to frig her in turn; as his fingertips rubbed up against her small button-prick, her hand stilled on his own cock.

“Oh, James, there.”

_ Yes. _

“Fuck me like Francis. You know how he’d do.”

“Ah, Jesus.” Behind him, Francis was still gasping for breath, although his arousal had not yet abated; he would perhaps be ready for more, given the right encouragement. James ground his hips backwards into his comrade’s prick, groaning in delight when this produced a violent shudder. “James, I need – ”

“Won't you be ready, Francis?” He had breath and nerve enough to  _ tsk  _ at Sophia, whose grin had turned positively wolfish. “Only you sounded so keen, before.”

“Dirty great fucker.” And now Francis’s teeth were on his neck, biting down hard enough to bruise; James swore. “I’ll have you till you spend all over her.”

“Take me. Take me.”

Clumsily, James kept tracing his fingers around Sophia’s most sensitive spot, although he could hardly breathe; several minutes later, with a cry and a little spurt, she came all over his hand, grasping his wrist and keeping his hand in place so she could writhe against the flesh of his palm.

“Battle royale.” Francis was panting with delight, now boring-in with barely-repressed longing. James groaned low in his throat as Francis buried himself to the hilt. “Oh, yes.”

“Not just yet, darling. You’re going to come inside me,” Sophia announced to James, removing her hand from his arm, scooting closer on her side, and widening her legs until her right thigh was level with James’ hip. He felt air near his right-hand side as Francis withdrew for a moment, and Sophia’s left leg slid past the crook of his waist.

“Good god, woman, your feet are bloody freezing!” Francis yelped, but his outrage was short-lived. With no more than a second’s pause, he returned his attention to James, moved forward, and pressed in a second time.

When Sophia took James in hand and guided him inside her; Francis pausing all the while in order to give them time to adjust, James nearly came on the spot, he was so prick-forward.

“Great gob-stopping  _ fuck.  _ Oh! _ ” _

Francis actually laughed, breathless. “Well done, madam.”

Sophia giggled, too; the sensation of their dual vibrations wrung several drops of sweat from James’s clenched brow. He could not relax; he was so damn close.

“There, now,” Sophia whispered, canting her hips forward once, then twice. James panted as he began to absorb the rocking movements, and Francis began to mimic them from behind, pushing forward in unison with Sophia, so that James was completely filled in every possible manner, then slowly deprived of this ecstasy. “Go it like this. Slowly.”

“You – naughty –  _ wench _ ,” James gasped, arching backwards into Francis, then curling forward toward Sophia with a whimper, unable to decide which of the two movements he cherished most. Each delicious thrust drew a ragged moan from his lips. “’S – so much  _ better than a  _ – ”

“Oh, yes.” Francis was biting at his shoulder again, desperate, Irish accent thick with lust. “Fuck ‘er harder, James. Fuck up, love.”

Sophia’s face had turned the loveliest shade of red, and her beautiful body heaved with every forward ripple of their joined hips. She was beginning to tremble.

“Oh, Christ, James, your hand, your hand, give me your – ”

She yanked his wrist forward again, maneuvering his hand between them until his thumb and forefinger pressed against her button-cock, rubbing them over it in a rough back-and-forth manner until a great shriek tore from her throat.

_ “Ah!” _

In that instant, her quim locked around him like a vise, and behind him, almost simultaneously, Francis bucked up hard with a noise like a sob, quivering, and hitting James in the precise  _ spot  _ sure to drive him to madness in the process. 

In an instant, the world fell away from James’ eyes, and when he finally regained his faculties, minutes later, he could feel two sets of eyes on him, carefully watching every movement.

“Well, you’ve killed me,” was all he could say. He was barely able to peel his head up from the pillows. “S’pose you’re pleased with yourselves.”

“Very,” rumbled Francis, and kissed his ear.

“Agreed.” Sophia carded a palm over James’ chest, then over his shoulder to Francis’s arm. “Though I could perhaps go once or twice more.”

James’s mouth dropped open. Behind him, there was a rustle of fabric as Francis propped himself up on one elbow.

“Once or twice – why, you devilish little  _ fuckbird _ ! Are you gone  _ mad?” _

“No,” said Sophia in a very sweet way, and straddled James’s hips for a brief moment, before crawling between him and Francis. James could not help taking interest in his new view of her shapely figure, and from the looks of it, neither could Francis. He was staring at her pert little breasts, as open-mouthed as if a sumptuous three-tiered dessert had just showed up in front of him. “Now, my dear Francis. Be a love and ravish me, won’t you?”

 

_ two months later _

  
  


Standing on the docks in naught so formal as a coat, jumper, vest and trousers, smiling beneath his flat cap, Francis watched as Fitzjames greeted their ebullient captain in rapid Portuguese, kissing the weathered old sailor on both cheeks before stepping back.

_ “João! Meu bom amigo.”  _ They embraced again, as tenderly as a father and son.  _ “Multo bem, obrigado. E você? Sim, sim, são eles. Meu companheiro, François, e minha noiva, Sofîa, nós estamos indo...”  _

“I can’t understand the accent,” Sophia complained to Francis,  _ sotto voce _ . The plain wedding band on her finger glimmered in the morning sunlight. Her traveling dress was a dark, practical green, and shorn of its typical adornments. “Why should it be so different from the Spaniards?”

“Damned if I know.” Francis simply shrugged, and fumbled the pad of his thumb across his own matching band. “Sure that one’ll start nattering on about it once he returns.”

Indeed, just as Francis had guessed, upon James’s return, he spoke for nearly five minutes, uninterrupted, as he told them about the ship and its voyage. “And, yes, João is willing to have a woman seen aboard, so long as she departs within a day or so.”

“And when shall Sir Cracroft be joining us?”

“Very shortly thereafter.” James winked at Sophia. “Really would work better if you’d cut your hair, you know.”

“I will not and shall not,” Sophia countered in the same jocular tone. “Suggest such a thing again and I shan’t marry you once we reach Lisbon, after all. I’ll take Captain João instead and become a pirate’s wife.”

“Leave two husbands before the year’s even out?” Francis rolled his eyes, pretended to sulk. “By God, Mrs. Crozier. Such rapacious insatiability knows no bounds.”

“It does not, Mr. Crozier, as well you know.” Her bright smile widened. “Mr. Fitzjames. Tell him he is not to speak to your fiancée so rudely.” She turned toward the dock, and raised one hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Oh! Gentlemen, I do believe we are being summoned.  _ Buon giorno, signore capitan!” _

“She’s speaking Italian again,” James noted fondly, as Sophia greeted the Captain in most cheerful tones. “Likely get about half of whatever she’s saying. But she’s devilish pretty besides, so João shall love her anyway.”

“James.” Before Sophia could return, Francis needed to confirm that this was not some foolish caper; that their collective actions were not monstrous stupid, even after all this time and planning. Discreetly, he took James’s hand in both of his, on pretense of a handshake, although his thumb caressed bold over the ridge of James’ forefinger, hidden by the clasp of his left hand over all.  _ Quviahukpit? _

Fitzjames looked startled and then pleased to be so cherished in public, nevermind asked such a question. A slight color rose in his cheeks. When he finally met Francis’s inquisitive, unusually serious gaze, his dark, searching eyes sparked with mischievous humour and excitement in response. The same way they’d done when first they met, all those years ago. Such boundless confidence and vigor had irritated the hell out of Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier then. But now, Francis would not have Fitzjames – his comrade, his companion, his  _ beloved _ – appear before him any other way.

Except, perhaps…

James squeezed Francis’s hand to renew his attention, likely knowing where Crozier’s mind had suddenly veered.

_ Takuřa'ma. Qauřimařuqtarma.  _ He squeezed Francis’s hand once more before releasing it.  _ Quvianaq. _

Together, they walked toward Sophia and the waiting ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S OVER.
> 
> [This website was super helpful for me when researching period-accurate clothes.](https://vintagedancer.com/victorian/1840-1850s-dickens-victorian-costuming-for-women/)
> 
> Francis's "battle-royale" comment comes from [this hilarious slang dictionary](http://www.horntip.com/html/books_&_MSS/1820s/1823_slang_dictionary_of_the_turf_\(HC\)/index.htm), in which it is defined as follows: "Battle-royal—(Cockpit), several cocks put in the pit together. Men (Irish mostly) enact the same kind of Pell-mell trick* at times: Tis ever a scandalous proceeding; and often at-tended with loss of life." What a euphemism. XD
> 
> The word "fuckbird" is stolen straight from James Joyce, another Irishman prone to vulgarity. Bless your dirty fucking whore mouth.  
>  
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Meu bom amigo. Multo bem, obrigado. E você? Sim, sim, são eles. Meu companheiro, François, e minha noiva, Sofîa, nós estamos indo... = "My good friend! Very well, thanks, and you? Yes, yes, this is them. My companion, Francis, and my fiancee, Sophia, are going to..."
> 
> Quviahukpit? = Are you happy?  
> Takuřa'ma. Qauřimařuqtarma. = You see me. You know me.  
> Quvianaq. = It's wonderful.


End file.
